The Crappiest Place on Earth
by Lassiturtle
Summary: Shawn and Gus are trapped at Disneyland after the park has closed, forced to endure the twisted games of a mysterious assailant until morning. Lurking in the dark, he could be anyone. Time becomes crucial. Hurt/Protective!Shawn Protective!Gus
1. Gobstoppers

**Story Note:** _This is my first piece of fan fiction anywhere. It's posted elsewhere, but I would love to have some more feedback on it! I have just done some major editing to the original._

_This story is set shortly after the Season Four finale, "Mr. Yin Presents." It is primarily a Shawn and Gus friendship story with major Shawn whump, horror, suspense, and hurt/comfort. Lots of banter. Yes, the circumstances are very odd. But so am I. And so is Psych. I really hope you enjoy this._

_This story contains somewhat graphic violence as well as salty language, so if either bothers you, please feel free to abstain. Also, if you have never been to Disneyland, this may taint your image of the lovely place. Sorry to make it into a horrific backdrop. Sort of._

_I do not own anything officially connected to _Psych_. Just an unofficial podcast. You are welcome to check out Pineapple Radio. _:)

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><p><strong>The Crappiest Place on Earth<strong>

_By Lassiturtle_

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><p>"Shawn, we do not need a mascot."<p>

"They're perfect, Gus. They have little spiny sensors all over." Shawn wiggled his fingers in the air, smirking. "They will sense things."

"We aren't getting a hedgehog."

"Oh, yes. We are. And he will eat all of insects in the office. And it will be… effulgent."

"You don't even know that word..." Gus trailed off as his eyes darted over to the word-of-the-day calendar sitting on top of Shawn's inbox. Yesterday's word was still half-there, torn haphazardly. Shawn was clearly messing with him. He wanted to see Gus's reaction to someone trying to out-Bee him.

"You just want the girls to come in here and fawn over his fuzzy little hedgehog belly, and then fawn over you."

"Don't be an Everlasting Gobstopper, Gus." He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "Hey, I wonder if they had Gobstoppers in Uganda. Note to self: send next girlfriend-in-Uganda Wonka basket." He shrugged at Gus's slack-jawed lack of response.

What could have been an uncomfortable pause was suddenly thwarted as the door flew open. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter hurled himself into the room headfirst, out of breath, and marched straight toward the empty phone cradle. Snatching it up in his right hand, he spun around and looked at Shawn and Gus for the first time since his invasion.

"This is not a Tomagotchi you can reset after it poops itself to death!" Lassiter's eyes flicked between the bewildered partners-in-crime. When they didn't answer, he lowered his voice, emphasizing each word individually: "Where's the phone?"

Shawn took a step forward, carefully relieving the detective of the receiver with both hands, as if dismantling bomb. "Lassie! Old buddy. Perhaps it headed off to the graveyard to pay homage to its predecessor, which, by all accounts, remains treed..." He glanced at Gus.

"Spencer, why don't you two have your cells on?" Lassiter started to lean back against Shawn's desk, and then decided against it, narrowly averting an avalanche of stacked papers and falsified business cards.

"Lassie, what's going on? The chief sent you all the way over here to tell us to turn our phones on?" It was Gus's turn to take a step forward.

"I was the closest one to your, uh, office."The word, "office" came out strained, catching in his throat. He glanced at Shawn, and then looked intently at Gus before speaking. "There's been a death threat."

Shawn swallowed hard as he felt his throat close involuntarily. Why was Lassiter looking at Gus? Shawn had his fill of death threats. First his mom. Then Abigail and Juliet. Now... He opened his mouth to crack a snide aside (as one does in these situations), but his breath caught noisily and embarrassingly. He cleared his throat instead.

"Oh my God," said Gus. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die before I meet Diana Ross." Shawn knew him well enough to guess his actual thought was more along the lines of, _Oh my God, I'm going to die. What is Shawn going to do without me and how on God's great Earth is this going to be amusing given present context? …I need props._

Lassiter squinted, and then looked into the air. "Annnnd the death threat goes to..." He pointed his finger: "Shawn Spencer. Whatever you did, we are going to have to undo very carefully."

Shawn's heart jumped, and then missed a beat. Good, not Gus. Wait, what? His mind leapt back frantically, attempting to decode the Spencer-cipher that usually kept things so neatly filed. Instead, he accessed an internal error that left his stomach in an increasingly painful knot and his memory a hazy shade of winter, without possibility of supporting even the temperatests of tropical fruits. He couldn't remember a damned thing.

"Shawn..." Gus had abandoned his prop-quest, likely trying to ponder his partner's likely transgressions. There were too many, thought Shawn. Maybe Gus should start his own Shawn-doings manifest. You know, for posterity. Gus liked lists. Lists and charts.

"I just hate to do this." Lassiter reached into the breast pocket of his suit, and pulled out an envelope. "This pains me, but The SBPD thinks you should both go into hiding." He handed Shawn the crisp business-sized envelope.

"Shawn & Gus" was looped neatly across, hamburger-orientation in blue ballpoint cursive. Shawn slid his fingers under the unsecured flap and pulled out a wad of cash, neatly folded in half and binder clipped together along with a sea foam Post-It. His feelings of anxiety were quelled momentarily by what he saw peeking up at him from the note.

"Did you draw this, Lassie?" Shawn stared with admiration and more than a little incredulity.

"Yes. Yes I did. And the reason this pains me is because I wish to god I was going with you." Lassiter flashed a half-smile, his disappointment visible, though his eyes twinkled a little. "I mean... _without_you." He flashed a sneer. "But I could always lose you suckers around the Penny Arcade. Or The Great Adventures of Mr. Lincoln, or..."

"The man himself would be proud of your Post-It Note prowess." Shawn held the note up a bit so Gus could catch a peek. "Gus, we're goin' to Disneyland!"

"Wow." Gus glanced up at the detective, who was looking around nervously, hand on Glock (as it had been since he walked in.) "This is one fine mouse. And you mean Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln." That was Gus's favorite "ride."

"Off you go." Lassiter had, by this time, located both Shawn's and Gus's sets of keys, and was shoving them into the wrong respective hands, while herding the two toward the door.

Gus opened his mouth—

"Your jackal ways do not escape me, Guster! Yeah, that's right. I know things. Now, move!"

Gus shut his mouth, reached out for Shawn's shirtsleeve, and all jest ceased forthwith: they were all too hastily cast into the open. Lassiter had his hand trained on his weapon, and his eyes narrowed and trained on possible hiding places—

—Well, perhaps forth-hence: Shawn and Gus had their hands covering one another's heads, their eyes shut, and they were both trying to crouch behind a single potted Daphne.

"Really?" Carlton Lassiter looked down at them.

"Hello," said Gus.

"Come on, Buddy." Shawn jumped up. He gestured toward the direction of Gus's company car (Shawn didn't think his motorcycle would do for a road trip), and they darted off, both jogging.


	2. You Can Leave Your Hat On

**Author's Note: **_All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. As much as I'd love to claim ownership to Disneyland, it is most vehemently not mine, and should never belong to one person alone. In fact, I would dearly love to see it grow to become a flourishing character commune. It most certainly is not, though, and the precursive opinion is quite silly of me. I would also like to stress that the Disneyland parks have most excellent security, and that you should feel extremely safe and euphoric while visiting. I do, however, warn against releasing your seat belt during The Matterhorn Bobsleds, and standing while racing through low caves and caverns, as decapitation is not only possible, but likely, and, if your head were to fly off, it could conceivably land in a following sled's passengers' laps. This would be most traumatic to all involved. Think of the poor Bomble. The original characters and plot are the property of the Turtle. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. That is all._

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><p>It was quiet in the little blue car. Shawn sat with his seat-back straight up, wary about each passing car. Who would want to get rid of him? As he stared out the window, he imagined each driver morphing into the faces of people he'd led to the police, pissed off, or perhaps generally displeased by proxy with his attractive brand of self-confidence, observational skills, and bodacious hair.<p>

"I knew we forgot something, Shawn."

Shawn snapped his head around as Gus spoke. "Huh? Oh, right. One mixtape coming up. Like I always say, keep a spare mixtape on your person at all times." He reached into his pocket.

"No, I meant the Doritos. Seriously, I'm starving. I c— What's that?"

Shawn had pulled a slip of paper from his pocket in lieu of mixtape, and was studying it, brows furrowed, mouth open slightly. His eyes moved slowly as his gaze met Gus's.

"It says, 'You are being hunted now. No police. No hotels. No hospitals. Your tank has enough gas. No potty breaks till I say so. Proceed to The Happiest Place On Earth. You are now in my domain, and you will follow my rules. Thanks for the tape.' "

Gus and Shawn both looked longingly out of the window as they passed a rest area.

"Gus..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you have to pee?"

"Not until now!"

Shawn made a made a face, then wadded up the note, and stuffed it in the glove compartment, from which, by happenstance, he also procured a mostly-full bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, plus Ranch Corn Nuts. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Well, at least they had snacks. How that much substance and delicious flavor fit in the glove compartment the little blueberry car was beyond him. Especially as his mind drifted in and out of reality... on and off the road... He closed his eyes and tried to think. He couldn't make any sense of who might be after him, or both of them. His head hurt.

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><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

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><p>What should have been a two hour drive took over four in the heavy traffic. By the time the car rolled into Mickey &amp; Friends Parking, it was well past dusk, the Corn Nuts had been eaten, and the chips had been examined, and then grouped by their similarities relative to celebrity countenances. Shawn had once seen David Bowie on a taco shell, an event sadly not born witness to by man, dolphin, or his beloved pet rat, Ben.<p>

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><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

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><p>Gus sat across from his best friend on the tram and wondered. He wondered how he could protect him through whatever this was. And what was going to happen... if anything was going to happen at all. This could so easily be a disturbing idle threat, had it not been for the mixtape-in-the-pocket switch. He wondered what his place was in this, and if he was in the same danger as Shawn.<p>

A little girl, maybe four years old, was grinning flirtatiously at Shawn from inside the usually laden-with-happy-anticipation tram car. Gus watched as Shawn smiled back at her, looked back at Gus with a foreign expression, then glanced nervously toward the quickly impending massive crowd of people. This was creepy. Little kids everywhere. The happy tram driver Gus truly aspired to be one day. Happiness-wise, at least. Music coming from every direction, none of it ever clashing. (How did they do that?) A very dissonant undertone crept through the ever-nearing well-manicured Disney trees.

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><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

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><p>Shawn's eyes darted from side to side, sweeping the young adult-aged crowd roaming through Downtown Disney. Shift-change for the assemblage. The little guys were going back to their hotels. Here comes the night. His gait stiffened as he contemplated a mad dash through the crowd, but in which direction, toward what end, and from whom? From somewhere not far behind him, a little to the right, someone quickened his pace.<p>

"Gus. Starboard stern. Use yer deadlights." Shawn increased his speed, narrowly dodging two photo ops in the process, mumbling his apologies to both parties, as he began to panic.

"Which side is starboard? Shawn? Shawn!" Gus slid past Teeny A, narrowly evading the unscrupulously searching lips of Bopper B. Shawn was still a good seven feet in front of him, next to an old fashioned street lamp. They were nearing the main park entrances, and Gus was not in the mood for an inverse game of Red Rover. He'd have to tell Shawn about that one. Only Shawn would be able to comprehend the sublimity of such a concept. But, man, what he wouldn't give at times for some version of that: to just have people "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Shawn right over" as needed when he got himself into hairy situations— Wait. How the—? How did...?

There was a man in a black and colorful baseball cap suddenly poised between the people in front of him and Shawn. Gus watched with spreading horror, as Shawn stopped in his tracks and recoiled, neither facing his pursuer nor escaping. Gus realized the man had his hand wedged in Shawn's jacket pocket. The baseball cap leaned toward the back of Shawn's head, talking maybe, then the hand in the pocket jerked sharply upward and Shawn stumbled. As he fell against the street lamp, the assailant tucked his hand into his own jeans pocket, took off his cap with his other hand, revealing locks of sun-bleached hair, and disappeared into a group of tired-looking Japanese tourists.

Shawn didn't turn around.

During that moment, Gus was acutely aware of the noises around him. The giggling children, the carnival-style Beach Boys music from somewhere, and his own heartbeat grew to a deafening roar as his feet reached the lamp post and his arm reached out for Shawn's shoulder.


	3. Absolutely No Princesses

**Author****'s**** Note: **_All publicly recognizable characters, theme parks, etc. are the property of their respective gigantic corporations. The original characters, though very few, and lacking in name and personality, as well as plot, which there shall be soon, are mine, all mine. I am so not associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. Perhaps I should have considered this before posting any fan fiction and ruining potential career opportunities. Failing my success as a Wookiee debt collector, pirate, or member of Ringo's All Starr Band. No copyright infringement is intended. That is all._

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><p>Gus was a few good paces behind him, but he'd catch up. He was sneaky like that. Gus didn't even need sneaking-around pants. It was an inborn and unique design, much like a fingerprint. Possibly more akin to a gorilla noseprint.<p>

Shawn looked over his shoulder to check on his buddy's status again, and his eyes were met by the flash of a neon hat under the well-lit utopian outcroppings. That hat. He'd seen it last week, bobbing down the opposite side of the street outside Peter's Pickle Plaza. It was an unmistakable explosion of black and garish that had Shawn visualizing The Grave Digger vs. Bigfoot on "Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! BE THERE!"

The hat was gone. _Damn it!_ If it was behind him, the logical thing to do was to move forward, and quickly. _Hurry up, Gus._ Shawn hesitated for a moment, considering his options. He scanned his surroundings, still pushing forward, but objects were fuzzy beneath the lights. They were too bright in places with shadows between. _Stay with people. In the crowd. He can't do anything terrible to me or Gus inside the crowd._

As Shawn brushed past someone, his jacket pocket caught on something. He made a move in an attempt to release himself, but something sharp jabbed him painfully in the ribs. He looked to his side briefly, only to see the mad eyes of the monster truck hat man, just as he felt his pocket tear at the corner seam.

The man was _actually pushing something against him_, and the pressure wouldn't let up.

Breath on his neck: "No-police-no-hotels-no-hospitals-no-security-guards-absolutely-no-princesses-no-cast-members." This guy must be a speed talker. He could give John Moschitta, Jr. a run for his Micro Machines. The man moved the object in Shawn's pocket so it no longer pressed into his ribs. Shawn pulled in a breath, relieved. _This is going to be one heinous bruise_. Shawn reflexively started to turn toward the man, just as he felt the object press into his skin once more, this time below the ribs, and more toward his center. It felt dull for moment... _Could it do any real damage_? It hurt. _It hurt like hell_. This guy was a pro.

The man in the multicolored hat leaned in, his voice at a _slightly_ slower pace: "You are going to spend some quality time after hours in the park with me." His grin was saccharin. _No_, thought Shawn, _more like Splenda to match his yellow teeth. Splenda smile_... "I have-some-challenges-for-you." Oh, speed-talker mode again. "And-if-anyone-notices-anything-I-do-to-you, your-Gus..." He paused for effect, "is going to die. So don't provoke me," he hissed.

Shawn still had no idea where this guy had come from, or what the hell he was talking about. Maybe if he just used his fanciful rhetoric:

"Dude. They have metal detectors at the gates now. Also, I can't get through security if I'm bleeding." _A fair point_, thought Shawn. Gus had probably seen the man by now, and was making his way closer.

"They don't check for plastic, do they?" Shawn felt a sharp pain as the sharp object pierced his skin. He gasped, and the shadowy figure pressed steadily deeper.

Shawn Spencer stood under a street lamp, while children laughed sleepily, skipping around to avoid him on their merry way to bed and dreams of Neverland, of Wonderland, and of brier patches. He stood motionless, a stranger amidst a cheerful crowd, as a madman gave a final shove, then let go of the driven plastic weapon.

"I wouldn't take that out until you get through security. It won't bleed much if you're careful," whispered the man helpfully. The shock of knowing a foreign object was embedded into his gut overwhelmed the pain at this point. Shawn was terrified to move. He ventured to breathe in another ragged gasp of air, and felt adrenaline coursing through his body.

Shawn panicked as he felt the blade, or shiv, or whatever it was pull out slightly, and his knees buckled as it was suddenly thrust upward.

"You've earned your potty break, Shawn Spencer. I'd-get-that-cleaned-up-once-you-get-inside-if-I-were-you." The colorful pavers melted into paint soup as the first wave of pain shot through his body, and he caught himself on the lamp post, hoping no one had noticed. He had no idea what else this stranger was capable of doing, but for now, he had to play along to protect Gus. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped.

"Shawn! What did he do to you? Are you hurt? Who was he?"

As Shawn turned his face into the light, surprised and pale. Leaning heavily on the post, he said, "That, Gus, was John Moschitta, Jr."

An exotically pleasant male voice accompanied by music announced the beginning of the _Fireworks in the Skies above Disneyland_.

Gus realized Shawn was saying something quietly. His voice was nearly lost over the loud music. Bright colors flashed, glistening off his dewy face, as the booming of the fireworks erupted in the skies above.

"We have to get in there before..." Shawn straightened, reflexively reaching out for Gus's arm, when he nearly lost his balance. "…before the park closes." He tested out his footing, and nearly toppled. "You're gonna have to help me out a little, buddy. Just till we get inside and I get this thing out."

"Wait. What? Get what thing out? There's something IN? He left something in?" Gus put his hand on the lamp post next to Shawn's. He needed some steadying as well.

A woman in a Minnie Mouse wedding hat walked past and must have seen the looks on their faces during a good flash, because she did a double take, walked back a few steps, and then asked if they were alright.

Gus posed grandly against the post. "Have you never seen a black man perform _Singin' in the Rain_?" The woman smiled and walked away. Shawn held up his fist weakly, and grinned.

Gus brought his up, frowning, careful not to jostle his friend.


	4. Lullaby in the Stars

**Author****'****s Note: **_All publicly recognizable characters, even those wearing costumes, and especially those who would be absolutely fired for removing their masks in public, theme parks, most restrooms, and some small walls, especially those built by ancient civilizations, are the property of their respective, and sometimes respectable owners. The boring characters and plot are probably mine. I don't own Disneyland, any restrooms, or any psychics. I also haven't created any creators, or producers of any media franchise, nor am I related to any restrooms, or psychically created theme parks, nor do I wish to own the producers of any restroom franchises. I also cannot verify the acuity of bush baby vision. Nor can I advise on particular staunchability qualities of socks. No copyright infringement is intended. That is all._

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><p>"Okay Shawn, we're up next. Play cool." Shawn shot Gus a pained <em>know, doy<em>look. Wasn't he always? He moved toward the security turnstile, and forced a smile at the older gentleman who looked a bit tired.

"Hi. I'm Shawn Spencer, and this is my associate, Guybrush Threepwood." _Monkey Island_. He knew Gus loved those old LucasArts computer games.

Without missing a beat or looking up at Gus, the old dude countered with, "If you are Guybrush Threepwood, then I am Mickey Mouse." Whoa. This guy was good. Just yanking those _Indiana Jones_ lines out of thin air. And in context? _Whaat_.

Holding his breath and trying not to clutch at his abdomen, Shawn made it through the two turnstiled gates. Just barely.

He wanted to say, "John Lennon was right, Gus. Someone appeared at the turnstiles, alright. I saw the girl with kaleidoscope eyes. Twice. And she was PURE EVIL."

Instead, as soon as they were under the train and heading left toward Main Street, Shawn grabbed at Gus again to stop himself from doubling over, and tried to catch his breath. He had to find a restroom. QUICKLY..

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><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

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><p>As the fireworks continued to burst across the Anaheim skies, a paranoid Shawn and Gus picked their way down a dwindling Mainstreet. The Fantastic Mr. Fox passed by, tipping his head slyly, as if to say, <em>I'm watching you, and so is every monkey, sorcerer, and pirate in this joint<em>...

Gus raised one eyebrow and looked at his friend, about to comment, not prepared for the lines of pain spread across Shawn's face. Gus hadn't realized Shawn was deteriorating so rapidly. Quickly he stood between his friend and the facade of an old storefront, so no one else could see.

"Shawn—" Gus reached out his hand.

"Gus... Aghhh. Gus, where's the—" Shawn coughed, grimacing. "Gus, where's the restroom. I seriously don't remember right now, dude." He couldn't think straight. He caught himself on the short decorative brick wall. Glancing down, he paused. _How thoughtful of Disney_.

Shawn's hand finally moved on its own toward his pocket. He hadn't wanted to move the end of the instrument now gaining more purchase on his insides, but he could deduce there was indeed sort of handle; with each step he took, something grabbed and tore into him.

He wrapped his shaking fingers around a horizontal piece. As the shock had begun to dissipate, fear was waiting like a scavenging hyena to take its hold. Shawn realized this was far more vicious than a plastic spoon or something, but now, as he held the handle of what was quickly draining his energy and causing excruciating pain, he could feel that this was indeed crafted as an intentional weapon. He felt some kind of grip, then forced his hand to let go. He couldn't tell how much blood...

"Okay, Shawn…"

He felt dizzy all of a sudden. Maybe he shouldn't have touched it...

"Shawn."

_Probably just from thinking about it_...

"Shawn. It's about fifteen feet in front of you. We're almost there. Come on, Shawn..."

In the still-flashing night, cradled by the final lullaby in the stars, Shawn managed to limp, stiffly and trembling, into the open restroom, followed by a very worried Burton Guster.

Shawn's eyes blearily swept the restroom. Awesomely clean. Those Disney guys could sweep a kernel of popcorn off the ground before you knew you dropped it sometimes. Someone had left a mostly unchewed pack of Big Red near one sink. The stall doors were all open—equidistant. He headed for the nearest handicap door.

"Gus, I need your socks, man."

"My what? You need my what, Shawn?" Despite his slight insecurity with such demands, he immediately and obediently began to de-shoe.

"You have remarkably clean feet, while I, being a very active, more macho type, tend to sweat more. Thus," He grunted. "I require your socks for staunching purposes."

"Oh, no." Gus closed his eyes. He did not like that word. It should be white-outed from the dictionary. With ecru-colored white-out so no one would ever suspect it had ever been there. Assuming the dictionary was of ecru ethnicity, as he suspected his was. He turned his attention back to reality.

Shawn leaned back against the wall, legs straddling the toilet, and grabbed his side again, muffling a cry of pain.

Both Shawn and Gus glanced toward the entrances at the noise, and then looked at one another knowingly. They needed a diversion in case of wanderers-in. And Gus was a master diversioner.

In one very tight and choreographed pop and lock, he handed Shawn his socks, spun around, braced himself against the stall frame, and peered with bush baby acuity in all possible directions. He was on. And he was face to face with _JAFAR_.

"Hello." The bathroom stall slammed hollowly. There was a faint whimper, and a rush of strollers and fathers pushed into the room. A child screamed, pointing at the villain standing unceremoniously in a public restroom.

Well, a diversion it shall be, thought Gus, as he mustered his Guster. These children will not forget this moment. He cleared his throat, tapped Jafar on the shoulder and said:

"!"

Gus's high-pitched girl-shriek drew a short reflexive group-whoop, which burst almost instantaneously into terrific gobbling laughter. Jafar spun in what could only be described as a placid storm of a masked cartoon villain from the grating garderobe, and Gus pulled his collar high, triumphant. Not only had he reached a Michael-Jackson-worthy falsetto, but on demand!

As he watched the costume slip the rest of the way through the exit, his stomach in knots, Gus leaned against the cold metal frame of the closed stall. The door was wedged shut as long as he didn't lean directly into it. Shawn had said no help.

_No hospitals_...

Gus also knew full-well that characters were not allowed in the restrooms. It would spoil the magic if anyone stopped to think about Disney princesses on the toilet. How the hell did mermaids pee anyway?

Grateful for the continued air of chuntering and squawking, and relieved no one was paying him any further heed, Gus flipped the Jackal Switch. He knew Shawn was hurting badly. He needed help in there.

Then he heard the sickening crash. There was surprisingly little reaction around the public restroom, but, just in case, Gus was glad he'd been practicing his classic pratfalls. With a flourished flail, making sure to bang the door next to him for added continuity of noisefulness, he landed on his butt. This one would have given Dick Van Dyke a run for his footstool. It was a very good thing Gus had a toned tush. Glancing around quickly, he waited until everyone had turned back away, and then peeped stealthily under the stall. What he saw made him clamor to his feet in distress, and push the door open.

* * *

><p>"!"<p>

Well played, Gus! But this meant he had to act now. He had to seize the opportunity. Seize the weapon. _Now or never, Shawn_. So he started by placing the fingers of one hand against the inner lining of his pocket and around the base of what felt like a hilt. A painful jolt echoed through his core, and he exhaled through his lips with a low grunt as his fingertips pushed into warm, wet cloth. The socks were going to be a good idea. Clamping his eyes shut, head strained against the hard tile wall, he touched the handle of the knife. His tongue absently curled over his top lip, maybe to muffle what he expected to escape his lips.

Beads of cold sweat began to drip down his face and down the back of his neck as he clasped the handle, panting, and pulled. His hands shook relentlessly as he slid the blade through his flesh, and he began to feel blood pulse from the wound. In a panic, he realized weapon was stuck in the fabric of his jacket. Knees trembling violently, he was nearly overcome by nauseating pain.

God, he wished he could bend enough to sit on the toilet!

_Shit! Have to_... _have to stop the_...

Shawn couldn't think at all...

The room was beginning to turn a deafening shade of gray.

_It's a knife. Like a real_...

_Oh shit_...

He held the end of the knife out, grabbing the sock off the metal toilet paper dispenser with his other hand, pressing the sock under his shirt firmly against his abdomen. His stomach rolled as his ears suddenly went cold. Gasping for air, his hand lurched toward the door, and he fell backward sliding down the wall, vaguely aware that he was crashing into the toilet, as the room faded into a shrill white dog whistle.


	5. I Can See Paradise by the Bathroom Light

**Author's Note: **_All recognizable strollers, costumes, restrooms, etc. are the property of their respective parents, wannabes, and people who have to use a toilet. I do not own any theme parks or restrooms, but If I owned one, I would most certainly insist on owning the other. What good would a restroom be without a theme park? The creepy guy and plot are mine. I'm not associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, beer garden, Jurassic Park, or German Air Raid. No copyright infringement is intended. Disney Princesses do no use toilets. That is all._

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><p>The door thumped against Shawn's motionless form. Gus hissed out of concern and shock, as he squeezed himself in and locked the door behind them.<p>

In the wash of obstructed fluorescent light, Shawn looked so pale. He looked like a little kid to Gus. Too vulnerable. He was sprawled and leaning sideways, legs crumpled on the floor of the stall, back slumped against the toilet, head leaning on his right shoulder. His left arm lay twisted on the floor, while the other still rested near his side.

"Shawn, come on." He hesitated then saw the knife. "Oh." Its handle stuck out of Shawn's dark gray jacket pocket about two inches. It was reinforced with sturdy ridges. This was not what he thought Shawn had meant. Gus pitched forward a bit, narrowly averting a second medical emergency.

With a few deep breaths, Gus was clung to his determination to help Shawn get through this. He could see the knife caught in the jacket was also jabbing back painfully where it had been pulled from. He'd pulled it out himself? Annnnd blood.

Gus's fingers paused for nearly a full four-point-three seconds, while his heart pounded so hard he wished he had stolen some beta-blockers from his sample case in his effort to move forward to examine what needed to be done. His breath caught anxiously, and then he was given full charge over his faculties.

Gus slid in behind Shawn, lifting his form off the toilet, and relieving its cold, hard pressures, to lie back him against Gus's own lap, where he could-_shudder_-get a better look...

As he laid Shawn's shoulders back against his own crossed legs, cupping his head and neck with his other hand, Gus felt Shawn's body shudder and stiffen.

"Gus?"

"Shawn, I've got you. We need to get you help, now." With that, he felt Shawn snap mostly into consciousness. Shawn reached up, and caught Gus's forearm firmly in a Shawn-grip like no other.

"No," he whispered, and then mouthed over and over. His eyes pleaded, and his efforts were met with the frustration of a single tear rolling down his cheek, and a cry of pain escaped his throat that hit before he could swallow it down. Then he clutched at his stomach, his breath grating.

"Damn, Shawn. But I need to stop this bleeding. This is going to hurt." The hand under Shawn's neck automatically gave it a rub for comfort and Gus felt a hideous mass of tension, probably pain, in his friend's muscles. Shawn's skin was clammy and very cold. Cold wasn't good.

_Pull yourself together, Gus. You have this_. First he had to help "ecru" the "unspeakable" with his remarkably clean socks. He could see one sock hanging between layers of Shawn's shirts. He guessed it hadn't made it to its destination.

"Gus, no..." Shawn's voice trailed off, as he gave in.

"Shawn, I'm sorry. We have to do this."

"Blood, Gus." Shawn swallowed, looking back up. "Gus, there's a lot of blood. And I am sorry for that, buddy," he said in a more healthy tone of voice, and then relaxed his head into Gus's lap. "But we have to make it through tonight." His voice began to shake. "And some probably really boss challenges. "Then I think..." His eyes drooped closed slowly.

"Shawn, come on. Stay awake. Boss challenges. Then you think what?"

"Then I think he'll let you go..." Gus felt Shawn's shoulders go limp against knees. _Let me go_? Shawn was the guy in trouble here...

Gus took the opportunity to pull away Shawn's dark jacket, a good color to hide any blood for a little while, especially in the dark. He felt the weight of the knife pulling with it as he moved it aside temporarily to reveal a blue and brown plaid shirt, starting to becoming frighteningly saturated with blood right where he'd be—

Gus fought the wave of nausea that bit at his insides. At his throat. At his teeth...

...where Shawn had been stabbed. He quickly unbuttoned the lower buttons, and pulled back that layer to reveal a dark gray tee, which was doing most of the, um... "ecru-ing." Gulping down tidal wave after wave of nausea, Gus took the expletively horribly staunching-sock in one hand and lifted Shawn's tee shirt to rib-level.

"Oh, Jesus, Shawn..." Blood coursed slowly with each heartbeat from the punctured skin in Shawn's abdomen. The wound was a couple of inches below the right side of his rib cage toward his center.

Swallowing the rising bile in his throat, Gus pressed down with the sock. Shawn made a barely audible moan. The restroom was uncomfortably quiet again now, so, while Shawn was still out, Gus used one sock as a makeshift pad, sucking in his breath, all while staring at his best friend's face for any signs of returning color. He ripped the other sock into longs strips, which he tied together (Thank god, he wore his sports socks. Absorption _and_stretchiness), and macgyvered a fairly secure bandage. For now.

He carefully pulled down Shawn's shirts and reached toward the jacket pocket to pull out the knife. Could that thing really be made of plastic?

Someone walked into the room, slamming the stall door directly next to them. As the door slammed, Shawn's eyes flew open, and so, obviously, did all of his pain channels. Gus's hand shot down and clapped over his mouth, just as a giant pump-up Reebok flew under the stall, managing to miss Shawn's head by centimeters by slamming full-force into Gus's thigh.

Gus yawped out of surprise more than pain, lunging a good eight inches in the air in a panic, before he realized what he'd done.

Shawn let out a broken cry that he muted by clapping his hand over his own mouth.

A gravelly voice tumbled over the closeted fortress with unmistakably deft speed-talking proclivities, even in its pauses.

"Aw-geez-you-guys-are-kind-of-cute. Huddling-together-in-a bathroom-stall-hope-nobody-saw-you." His head appeared over the top of the wall, skin leathery with sun, blond hair greasy and sans hat. "We-wouldn't-want-that-now. RIGHT-SPENCER?" He tossed a small jewelry box, maybe the size of a ring, to Shawn, who winced as it hit it chest.

"What's this? A proposal? We hardly know each other!" Shawn seethed through clenched teeth.

"Exactly. A proposal."

There was a welcome pause before the storm hit.

"And-the-beginning-of-our-little-scavenger-hunt." Carefully noting the bemused looks on the two guys' faces, he continued. "I-give-you-clues-you-complete-tasks. If-you play-my-games-and-are-up-to-all-of-my-challenges..." He took a breath, shaking his head against some unknown phantom and continued. "And-if-you-survive-the-night-in-the-park-Spencer-then-I-keep-our-deal-You-could even-win-some-fabulous-prizes!" He laughed shrilly... manically.

"Dude. Did you just quote _Splash_in the middle of a death-and-torture threat?" Shawn shot him an incredulous look.

Gus looked down at Shawn, who looked lightly less pale (maybe due to anger), but was shaking against his legs. "What deal, Shawn?"

Shawn looked up at him, then back away.

"What deal?"

The man threw the boys' stall open, luckily intercepting Gus's shoulder rather than Shawn. He was eating a churro.

"Man these are so freaking GOOD! YUM!" He tore off a bite, laughing with his mouth open, bits of fried bread dancing from the tip of his tongue. "Why JULES, of course! You lose, bye bye Jules! Sorry Shawn."

Shawn wrenched himself to a sitting position, in a fit of panic, fury, and pain. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was in disbelief. How did this man know anything about his feelings for the detective? It was making Shawn especially sick that he called her Jules.

"Oh, and I'll be needing _this_!" The man swooped over and yanked the knife out of Shawn's jacket. The force shoved him into the toilet again, and he gasped in pain.

"Fiberglass-reinforced plastic push knife! Three-inch blade. Three-inch handle!" The guy explained. Or bragged. Either way. He stopped to carefully observe the blood, still gleaming, crimson on the blade for a moment, almost scientifically, before announcing he'd done a fine and mighty job of driving nearly all three of those inches into Shawn's torso. Then he wiped the blade off on his churro wrapper, which he stuffed back in his pocket, and lumbered out of the restroom in a creepy Sasquatch gait.

This was going to be a long night.


	6. Drink Your Ovaltine

**Author****'s**** Note: **_All decoder rings, genetically engineered dinosaurs, Spirograph pens, public restroom stalls, and alluded-to theme park attractions, which you wish would just show-up-already are the property of more well-to-do and much happier people than I. The creepy psychopath and lack of plot are mine, all mine. I don't know, stalk, exchange Christmas cards, or pretend to be Twitter friends with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise that I am aware of, but that says very little, as I live in my own version of Never Neverland. No copyright infringement is intended. And a friendly reminder: KILL your Babelfishies before listening to Vogons recite poetry. Love your Turtle. That is all._

* * *

><p>Slowly Shawn began to catch his breath. Very slowly. Much easier without a knife impaled in your gut. The pain began to subside to a dull, but still frightening ache, and he gingerly touched his shirt.<p>

"Nice handiwork, buddy." He didn't look at Gus. He felt terrible. Responsible somehow. Who would do something like this? Shawn must have done something god-awful in the past to warrant this degree of lunacy. And it was endangering Gus. Gus who'd just proven he'd do anything for his best bud. Shawn knew that there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep Gus safe. He thought of Jules for a split second before quickly swallowing the feeling away. He just needed to get through the night as the maniac planned for it to unfold, or find another way out. Preferably the latter.

Gus held out the small jewelry box. It was an unmarked department store gift box, basic white with a little padding— the kind that might come with anything not-too-fancy. A ring or maybe a small pair or earrings. Shawn fingered, leaving sticky patches of blood on its pristine casing, for a few moments, curious, but deeply dreading its contents.

He knew one thing for certain: his missing mixtape, although sleek and compact, could never fit inside this box.

Shawn pulled it open, his hands still shaking. Perplexed, he snatched the item from its cloth-covered cardboard shackles.

"What is it?" Gus peered closer.

At the same time, they both exclaimed: "It's a secret decoder ring."

Shawn gutted the box to reveal a piece of paper, absolutely littered in numbers. At the top, in gashed-out capitals befitting an overconfident serial killer were the words:

"YOU HAVE FORTY-FIVE MINUTES TO DECODE THIS MESSAGE AND FIND YOUR NEXT CLUE. THESE TASKS WILL INCREASE IN DIFFICULTY. I WOULD NOT ADVISE TESTING YOUR CONSEQUENCES THIS EARLY IN THE GAME. YOU WILL SOON TIRE."

"There must be hundreds of letters on here, Shawn!"

"He ruined it for me! I always wanted a secret decoder ring." Shawn sighed. "My hands are shaky. How about I read the numbers, while you decoder it?"

He shifted his weight on the hard floor, cringing. Hopefully no one would come in here for the next few minutes. In his mind he pictured the jeep in _Jurassic Park_, Jeff Goldblum crippled in the back, speeding away from an even faster T-Rex, Jeff yelling all the way down the road, "Must go fast, must go faster, must go faster."

"Do you have that secret sole-pen I gave you for Christmas, Gus?"

"Oh, you know I do!" said Gus grinning, as he opened the secret agent shoe panel on his shoe to reveal an old pink Spirograph pen. Really, Shawn had dug a hole in his new Christmas shoe with a knife one afternoon while he was in the kitchen fixing a sandwich. Shawn somehow convinced him not to fix it, though, because he may need it as a spy compartment someday. That spy thing always worked on him. Gus decided it was probably time to thank whoever for Shawn this year at Thanksgiving Dinner.

Shawn began to read. As Gus decoded with the ring, which on any other day would have seemed magical, Shawn worked the pink Spiro Spy and tediously, but surely, the two fell into perfect rhythm. They had always worked well together.

"UN. Believable, Gus. Simply unbelievable."

Gus stopped, shaking his cramped fingers out. "What? How much more do we have?"

"We're getting there, buddy... You're doing good. But, seriously. This guy is a poet! This is poetry, Gus." Shawn looked genuinely disturbed. His teeth were starting to chatter. He was probably starting to go into shock.

Gus raised one eyebrow. "That's just weird, Shawn. Nothing surprises me at this point, though." He watched Shawn for a few seconds as he closed his eyes, in obvious pain. Gus wished he could get him out of here. If this man knew so much about Shawn, though, he could actually be a true threat to Juliet's life. "Are you getting anything off of that paper yet?"

Shawn opened his eyes and glanced back at the paper, as if he'd forgotten where he was for a moment. Or even separated himself from it. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah. I'm thinking we need to head toward Adventureland."

"What makes you say that?" asked Gus, already on his feet, opening the door of the cramped stall.

"Well I can't think of anything other than Jungle Cruise rhyming with 'fungal screws.'"

Gus opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted—

"Seriously." He added, "This m-makes Vogon poetry sexy."

"What poetry?" Gus looked alarmed.

"Just... a movie. I think. Anyway, confirmed. I just got to a part about sleeping zebras and the b-backside of water. I know my Jungle Cruise schmooze."

"Oh, and you know the backside of water is my favorite part! Where else can you view the backside of water? Aside from possibly _The Last of The Mohicans_?" Gus was relieved that they'd found a direction to head at the very least. Time was ticking. They could work on the rest when they got closer. He looked down at Shawn.

"Hey, Gus? Uh. Can you help me up? Then I w-won't ask for anything else for at least t-ten minutes."


	7. The Pineapple Pattern

**Autho****r's**** Note: **_All publicly recognizable fruit products, man-made duck pooperies, Californian jungles, and shooting galleries are the property of Disneyland. The Dole Whipped Pineapple man is mine. I have him locked in my basement for inspiration. I once knew a boy whose nickname was Franchise, but everyone knew him as Chise. Frontierland is a bit of an overshot when you are heading for Adventureland from Carnation Plaza, but Shawn is so very observant, he would have heightened senses._

* * *

><p>With Gus's help, Shawn managed to get to his feet, and walk slowly from the bathroom. They'd cleaned up the blood as well as they could, as quickly as they could; Gus with his eyes shut, his head turned as far to the side as it went, and his arm out, and Shawn with as few movements as possible. He had visions of writing his name on the wall in blood:<p>

_**SHAWN SPENCER - STABBED - HELP ME**_

With drips for drama! But if this guy had access to Juliet, or was going to hurt Gus, it was hopeless. He also couldn't bear the thought of some poor kid seeing blood at "The Happiest Place on Earth..."

The Happiest Place on Earth... a laugh caught in his throat, and it made a ridiculous snorting-grunting noise, as he stopped himself from going into a painful coughing fit.

Emerging into the night air was refreshing. Shawn could feel circulation mixing back in with his apprehension. Although, his stomach burned and twisted as he walked.

All of these people... He could just... nothing. He could do nothing. In a little over an hour, the park would close, and, if all went according to the plan, there would be very few people about until long after Shawn wished he was asleep in bed. In fact he'd long been a proponent of public outdoor beds. He wished he could lie down in a bed right here in the crux of Frontierland by the shooting gallery and rest. Just for a little while...

Gus snagged his arm, as he stumbled.

"...ou okay?" Gus's voice drifted in, its tone contrasted by the almost mockingly pleasant derision erupting between twanging ricochets at the gallery, which was actually farther away than Shawn thought. That's right. They were turning before then. His brain was foggy. Shawn relied on is sharp observation skills, memory, his ability to think on his toes. This was alien and unnerving to him.

"Yeah," Shawn lied. "Just thinking about the clue." And by then, he was. Furtherly, by the time they neared The Tiki Room, he knew _what_they needed to find, just not quite where to start searching. They were on the hunt for—

"Oh! Gus! PLEASE!" Shawn's eyes widened and a hopeful smile etched across his face. He nearly leapt, as was customary each time he arrived at this magical Mecca of his, but for the agonizing pain in his stomach.

"Gus! PINEAPPLE!" he repeated, not shifting his gaze from the man now grinning back at him from the small thatched stand. Dole Whipped Pineapple. 100% frozen, whipped pineapple. Simply sung, perfecTIOONNN!

Gus grabbed for the change in his pocket. "You deserve this one." He handed the money over the straw counter, and, upon receiving the towering golden heap, guided it into Shawn's hands, which had followed it eagerly the whole way. So had his fishy lips.

"Shawn, you have to eat fast. We only have nine more minutes," said Gus, looking down at his watch.

"It's okay. I think be'er wi'h..." _Slurrup_"... pineapple." Shawn gulped the treat down, nearly dribbling it down his chin at one point. Gus stepped aside, gesturing that Shawn also get out of the Dole Whipped Pineapple traffic pattern.

As they leaned against carved wooden totem poles, Gus decided that Shawn already lived in a pineapple pattern. He pictured one of those dance instruction patterns with footprints on the floor, but replaced with thousands of little pineapples. Was that Shawn's dance? His life cycle?

"I have it." Shawn suddenly grabbed his forehead in pain, spoon expertly balanced (just like you imagine a cool looking cigarette would feel like when you're a kid) in otherwise superfluous fingers.

"Have what?"

"Brain freeze, for one! The rest of the clue, for two," he said, blinking and pressing his tongue up against his soft palate.

"Don't we have to decode the end first?" Gus fingered the ring in his pocket. They'd left the case in the restroom by mistake.

"Can I see it?" Shawn looked a little desperate, squinting through his eyelashes at the paper. Shawn didn't usually need light, thought Gus, as he got back to safe-cracking for _Darby O'Gill and The Little People_.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>"Come on. Let me see."<p>

"Don't say I didn't warn you. In huge red Shawn-paint. BAD POETRY. We don't have much time." He began to walk more quickly, clenching the piece of paper tightly against his stomach. "Here." Replacing the paper with quickly with his right hand, he deeded Gus the finished verse, already out of breath and shivering again from the frozen dessert. "We have to go to the exit." Regretfully, he dodged a round man with a cane. To be fair, dodge-a-man was better than collide-a-man, but he had to survive the rest of the night. He growled, mostly just for the sake of growling to himself, and to say, "It's in a green stroller, Gus!" He stopped for a second and tipped his head to one side. Was that how Lassiter felt every day? Shawn made a vow right then and there to growl more often. He'd have to ask Lassie how to master the snarl.

"There. Under there." Shawn wiped sweat from his brow and pointed from a mature raised planter of deceptively tropical looking plants. He steered Gus closer to the target his eyes had latched onto. At the edge of the old Jungle Cruise River, in the middle of a watering hole of people waiting for other members of their parties to disembark, lurked a darkly upholstered stroller. Shawn was pointing to the bottom tray of the thing. Whatever you call those. There, starkly contrasting the nighttime fabric was a small yellow notebook.

Gus leaned over, snatching it up to glance inside before anyone knew he'd taken it. You know, in case this was the wrong horror-vehicle or something...

It wasn't. This was a waterproof "Rite in the Rain" field notebook. He expected the format to be similar to the last clue, parts of which he'd only yet gleaned, but...

Instead, something was scrawled on the first page:

"I can see you. Bungle In the Jungle. You have exactly ten minutes to cross to the opposite side of the river. Stay hidden until the park is closed. The Head Hunter has your next clue."

An all-weather marker was tied to a small hole in the notebook by a frayed piece of string.

Gus and Shawn leaned heavily against the wooden railing. There were employees everywhere at the crossing by the boat loading dock. They both looked across the man-made ice-cold trough of duck poop in dismay.


	8. Walk the Plank

**Author's Note: **_Maybe I shouldn't post so many chapters at a time if I want reviews. Hmm… Sorry this chapter is so very short._

* * *

><p>Shawn looked back longingly one more time through the faces bobbing past the waterway. Lines and lines of psychopathic poetry, like corrupted computer code followed each of them, as they disappeared forever into the nightmare he knew was only just beginning.<p>

A little boy padding along, holding a lollipop.

They weren't all clues...

A shuffling old man with quarrelsome eyebrows that curled out, then back down over his eyes. _"You stand by the window at dusk and think of her. I wonder, which lipstick do you prefer?_"

A cold-looking gangly teenager not dressed sensibly for a day at Disney. Probably local. "_100 feet left after the Mickey and Walt. You should have her by now, Shawn. It's totally your fault._" This guy scared the hell out of him. He hoped Jules was safe.

A Gothic looking guy stared blankly from a pock-marked face as he passed. The coded clue was a rambling recipe of landmark allusions and obsessively accurate pace counts, interspersed with piercing comments regarding Shawn's personal life. Some of the details were likely cruel assumptions designed to amplify his suspicions over how much the guy knew.

"What is this, Shawn?" Gus held the note out in disbelief. "How does he...?" The words trailed into the thickening air, then fell away, as they were met with unusual Shawn-silence.

He was plotting. Maybe eight minutes now. He was not jumping in that cesspool.

"Gus!" He said, positively.

"Yeah?" Suspicion crept across Gus's face like cheese on macaroni.

"We're getting in line. Jackal Switch." He pointed, squinting across to the jungle boat landing. "See? Dolores. I spy Deadpan Dolores at the helm. I will woo her with my charms, while you slip behind the maintenance gate. I find her to be infinitely woo-able."

"What are you going to do after that?"

"I dunno, buddy. I'll think of something. I don't feel like going swimming right now." Shawn closed his eyes, let out a stuttering breath, and began to lean, titling precariously forward. He caught himself on the short wall with a sharp gasp as searing pain brought him crashing back to the present.

"Shawn, sit." Gus grabbed his shoulders, guiding his now shaking form to an awkward perch on the wall. They sat for a minute, both acutely aware of the time, but knowing passing-out-Shawn would be a pretty bold attention-grabber.

"He knows everything, Gus. Who is he?" Shawn looked up. His face was pale, but surprisingly furious. "Who the hell is he, and what the f- What does he want, Gus?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. We can do this. Juliet will be fine." Gus eyed Shawn's almost-black jacket-front. He hoped those socks were doing the trick, because he couldn't really discern whether Shawn was bleeding in the dark. He didn't want to think about it.

It wasn't just Juliet Shawn was worried about.

"Can you make it over?"

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>Old fashioned music blared from what was supposed to be a vintage radio. There was no line. There shouldn't be at this time of night on The Jungle Cruise, but Gus clung to an automatically-generated thankfulness for a short Disney line. Until he and Shawn reached the old planky boarding area. Around that time, he was scourged with dread, and haunted with the sudden realization that this was the beginning of the "games."<p>

"Hey! Looks like you're the last tour!" The man at the platform grinned. "Two of you?"

"My friend here is scared of the crocodiles, aren't you, Gus?"

"I am," he nodded, eyes very serious.

"I think I'd better do this alone, Gus. Make sure it's safe for you."

"There's a friends and family waiting area right over here, sir." The man unquestioningly gestured to a spot directly near the maintenance entrance. How did Shawn know that was there? Did he have the Disneyland blueprints memorized in his head in case of such events? That was a silly question. Of course he did.

_Good luck, Shawn_... Gus glanced one more time back at his friend, who was now climbing stiffly into the boat with Dolores, who'd just pulled up.

Gus glanced to his right to find the ride operator/ travel agent/ whatever-they-called-themselves on this ride immersed in a conversation with his fellow boat director. No time to reconsider his options. There was the gate, and here he came.

What happened next was the stuff of legends. Burton Guster was so catlike in his subterfuge, so magnificent in his swift slip into the night that one moment held him wary on a wooden dock, and the next in a hero's pose fifty yards away, shrouded by deep jungle tendrils, soil sprinkling back down to the ground in his wake. The action was witnessed by no child, insect, or creature of the dark and only Gus will remember the storming crescendo of _Chariots of Fire_ that transported him for that brief instance, followed by the soft thudding of dirt as it rained down upon his clothes like the sweetest victory-Gatorade brought forth from the tanks of the gods.


	9. In the Wet

**Friendly Reminder:**_ Always carry a towel._

Stepping gingerly into the boat, Shawn was grateful for the customary hand that reached out to steady him. Truth be told he wasn't very pleased with the prospect of stepping into it with the knowledge he'd have to maneuver his way back out as soon as he exchanged some witty words with Dolores here.

Shawn kept his right hand debonairly clutched to his stomach. He opened his mouth to beguile the waiting boatwielder, swallowing a whine that nearly escaped his lips instead.

"You alright, honey?" Dolores was all about the monotones, but her concern was touching.

"Oh! That Pizza Port fusilli. Sort of only comes in megafauna proportions!" He smiled (quite boyishly, he thought to himself. That ought to lure her in.)

"The only megafauna in this park, dear, is located in these jungles. Along these very waterways. Waiting to strike at any moment." She was good. And she used his word, "megafauna," which tickled him.

"But you... knew... that." She placed her fingers on her temples. Ah-ha! She did remember him. He'd once "read" her favorite sandwich fixin's, Disney lanyard pins, and ice cream flavor (all based on evidence smeared or placed rather ostentatiously on her river-woman uniform.)

He started to sit, and then cried out in pain. Doloris gasped, all deadpan non-expression wiped from her face.

"I'm getting!" He covered quickly, placing his hands on his temples. "I am getting something! The spirits are telling me..."

"What?" She was rapt in concentration, following his every gesture.

"They are telling me..."

"Yes?"

"NOT to complete this boat journey with you, oh Captain, my Captain." She looked disappointed. "I am also sensing a great disturbance in the—"

"The Force?" Wicked, Dolores.

"…in the accountability of your maintenance staff. I wish to examine your gate, if only for a moment. Then I will be on my way."

"Suit yourself, cowboy." She climbed out of the boat, and helped Shawn up to the dock, at his heels as he made a move for the gate.

"Oh, there was a stipulation. I must do this alone. I will make a full report if I find anything. I am a detective." He flashed a smile again, wincing internally.

"Well you obviously know you way to the exit. Just hurry. The ride is now officially closed for the night." She turned and headed for an employee's-only door.

Shawn knew he had only a few minutes to reach Gus on the other side of the "river," so he walked as quickly as he could. He was freezing cold. Cold and sweating. As he reached up to wipe the droplets from his hairlines, he saw that his shaking hand was red with blood. 

°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°

From his perch under a large Schefflera, Gus saw Shawn trudging down the same path he'd taken along the man-made creek. He'd made it. Gus's relief turned to concern when his friend came into better view.

"Gus... " Shawn's lips were white, face ashen, evident even against the moonlight. His hand dropped from his side to reveal a dark, glistening circle of blood, which dripped down onto his pants. Gus ran forward. Shawn squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before his legs collapsed. Gus saw his features deaden as he tumbled sideways into the dark water.

Gus lunged, plowing his hands into the icy cold swash after Shawn's submerged form. The water was about a foot and a half deep. His grasping fingers curled around gritty sediment before catching a pinch of jacket.

_Don't do this to me, Shawn!_

Gus's hands slid around shoulders. With all his strength, he pulled. He'd practiced supporting Shawn's frame whenever his friend played the toddler card and went boneless on him. This was far more difficult under the weight of the churning creek. Gus swore as he dug his fingers into Shawn's jacket and wrenched his limp body out of the water, dragging him so that his torso was resting on the bank.

Trying to catch his breath, Gus immediately positioned Shawn's head and shoulders to the side and waited for his chest to move. After a full twelve seconds, Gus prepared himself to attempt resuscitation, a feat he'd always been terrified to perform.

As if on cue, Shawn's chest suddenly hitched desperately for air, as a sputter of liquid poured from his mouth. Pulling his legs partly out of the water in a curl toward his chest, he let out a silent scream as his body was wracked with choking gasps for oxygen, retching, and subsequent tremors of pain.

Thinking quickly, Gus tore off his sweatshirt and threw it into the bushes a few feet away to keep the dry part of it dry. Then he held Shawn's shoulders firmly, arms wrapped around his now quaking body, in an effort to steady him, or at least help him warm up somehow. Shawn reached over and gripped his hand. This was not in the best friends job description. No one should ever have to bear witness to this level of suffering.

"Shawn, you can breathe now. It's okay... I'm going to get you out of here. Right now."

Still coughing, Shawn pulled harder on Gus's hand. "N-no! Gus, not-" his eyes red and pleading. "Not yet!" After a couple of minutes, he began to relax, body sagging, exhausted, against Gus's hands and the hard dirt.

"Thanks for... pulling me out... buddy..." He closed his eyes again and his hand dropped slackly from its position on top of Gus's.


	10. Reflections

**Author's Note:** _Very short chapter, but necessary in the plot structure. Also a slight deviation from what you might be expecting…_

* * *

><p><em>No, don't do that<em>. Gus unconsciously tightened his grip around Shawn's cold, water-soaked chest, as he felt his shuddering and shivering abruptly cease.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>The two men sat affixed to the riverbank in the dark trees, moonlight spilling down around their shapes to reveal one leaning over, clinging to the other's motionless body. In the tree-dappled graylight of the calming park he laid, his now-unclenched jaw tilted back. His mouth hung open slightly, and the pain was still a shadow across his heavy eyelids. One of his legs was submerged in the water, the other pulled higher, leaving only one foot helplessly lured in the drink.<p>

The ground around both figures was wet and shiny in the filtered night light, and reflected up to the trees lining the riverbank, where it was absorbed and hidden away in the dark, looming branches. The stiller air was uncharacteristically sweet with rotten algae. Sickeningly so. And the sharp odor of fertilizer mixed with organic, rich dirt permeated the chilling evening breeze, which had just lifted its soul above the undergrowth with an almost noxious combination of ozone and chemicals. The Disneyland din had died down, allowing for scattered, almost embarrassed-sounding frog blats, which erupted for only seconds at a time before eliciting periods of deafening silence. A moan slowly sprang from the kneeling man's diaphragm, as he shook and shook and shook, and shook again the body sprawled in the mud at his knees.

A perfect body. Just lying there. Ooh, this was so good. No need to test this relationship any further. Pretty undeniable loyalty. And the emotions were so raw and so... so pure! It felt so freeing to experience something like this! Shawn wasn't supposed to be in mortal peril this early in the night, but things happen. Things always happen... always happen...

What?

A perfect body. This was brilliant! And the plunge into the water? It was thrilling! Undeniable loyalty. But, wait... Shawn wasn't supposed to be in danger this early... What's happening? Oh, screw it.

The leaves began to dance together, as an acrid burning smell filled the air with light and music, and the world exploded.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>On the ground now. Throbbing. Dry throat. Some sort of aviary. No, maybe a park... A duck. No, that was a frog. A frog too close. On the ground. In the bushes. In some kind of forest. No, not a forest. Hard earth digging into hipbones. His brightly colored hat sitting there, right on top of a rock. No more funny smell...<p>

Events came flooding back. Images. Images like doilies dipped in Coca Cola. Smeared like fingerprints on a window. Plans. The past and future in a mess of melted vanilla ice cream. Plotting. His prey.

Across the river, only twelve feet away, the two men had vanished.


	11. Cheer Down

**Author's Note:** _All fabric softeners, suffering psychics, and their stripping sidekicks are the property of others. I would never incorporate an evil such as the anthropomorphized Snuggle bear into a pleasant smelling creature comfort. Nightmares are made of such unpleasantries. The wonky bits are mine, all mine, as usual, as is, also as per usual, the lack of plot. This plot-withholding shall cease shortly. I don't go to air shows with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, though I would feel mightily pleased with myself if anyone cared enough about my fic to point a finger._

* * *

><p>"Shawn, wake up!" He felt a shallow sigh. More softly, "You've got to wake up for me, buddy. I need you." At that, a freezing-cold hand came back up sluggishly to meet his. "That's right. I'm right here." Gus breathed, closing his eyes.<p>

"Shawn, the man who attacked you is right across the creek. He's passed out or something. I don't know. Maybe a seizure." Shawn's breathing quickened instantly in response. Gus rested his fingers on his friend's neck once more to see how he was doing. Too fast. He was shivering again in his cold, wet clothes. From shock too, Gus guessed from the fresh blood he'd seen dripping from Shawn's body in the light before his sickening plunge into the water. Gus had pulled Shawn's feet out as soon as he realized he wasn't slipping away from him that instant, but that was little consolation.

"Okay, Shawn. I'm going to help you take your jacket and your shirts off, and give you my dry ones. We have to get out of here before he wakes up." Helping Shawn was the only thing keeping Gus rational at this point. Being thrown into necessary roles of authority made him careful and, most importantly, numb to the elements. Inside curdled terror a pinprick would expose.

Shawn's eyes remained closed, though now clenched, and he nodded wordlessly.

"I'm getting my sweatshirt. It's just over here." Gus carefully removed himself and snagged his black American Ninja sweatshirt from the clutches of a snag. He rarely saw this thing in his closet. It was ideal for Disneyland layering, and he was seriously glad he'd been wearing it. Not too wet. Both sleeves were saturated, but the shirt itself was mainly dry.

"Here." Shawn jumped at the sound, probably startled back into full consciousness.

"Sorry. It's okay... Here." Gus glanced over at where he'd heard the man crash into a shrub. His heart had nearly exploded at the sound while Shawn lay helpless in the dark. Gus could see the outline of a person lying there in the shadows. Maybe not a person. "Person" was far too kind a label to place on this guy. What would happen when he woke up? Would he be of sound mind after... that? Gus had no wish to find out. He slid his arms underneath Shawn's back, scraping them in the slivery dirt under the weight, and then pushed his knees under his arms to help Shawn upright slowly.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>Shaking with exhaustion, Shawn leaned with every deviation of this fingerprints gripping the gritty mud, while Gus peeled off his jacket, then worked off the button-up shirt. Shawn felt humiliated and helpless.<p>

"You know... "Shawn grunted, as he weakly batted away Gus's attempt to peel up his tee shirt. "Times like... Mmmmhh…" He started over. "Times like... Araagh- Gu-us-s..." He pressed his hand against Gus's not-so-gentle touch. "Hey, Gus. Let me do it." Keeping his eyes fixed on his assailant across the way, Shawn reached down and pulled up the hem of his shirt." He looked back down when he heard Gus suck breath through his teeth. Blood ran in rivulets, smearing with the water as it blotted and wound down and around his trembling skin. Starting at the waistband, his jeans were a startling color of noir-crimson. In the dark, it looked like someone had Photoshopped the dark color in. He'd felt the wound rip open deeper in his lust for breath.

"Where are my socks, Shawn?"

"In my pocket."

"Why in your pocket?"

"You're supposed to give and them to me and say, 'Here you go.'"

"What?" Gus's concern twisted into puzzlement.

"Then I'd say, 'I want you to put those things away. Those things'll kill ya,' and then you'd pet my hair and call me a beautiful man." Actually, Shawn would have given anything to be laying in Danny Glover's arms right now, sirens wailing, George Harrison playing cheerfully over the concrete... Over the water... That... wouldn't be so... bad... Slowly, the trees fell down around him, and he was wrapped in a wave of matte white unconsciousness.

The sensation truncated almost immediately with a dull throbbing in his brain. He had to wake up. Wake up for Roger. Do it for Rog. For Gus... Gus, who was now holding him in his arms. Much like Danny Glover.

"Whaat."

"What 'whaat,' Shawn? Dude, stay with me here."

"They kep'... fallin' off," Shawn slurred.

"Just don't do that again. This guy's going to wake up soon!" Fingers crammed into his jeans pocket and pulled out the drenched sock parts. Shawn brought his hand in the air for a fist bump with the Guster-Glover. It was not returned. Ouch.

No, really... OUCH. Gus had pretty much shoved him back upright. Ooh... That felt wonky... He was suddenly overcome with how cold the air had become.

"G-gu-s-s-s. I'm c-c-old. R-r-really cold-d-d." Shawn felt his heartbeat jump then skip again and again. He wanted a warm bed now more than ever in his entire life. That said a lot for boy who would daydream in elementary school, at various intervals during the day, about building elaborate flying squirrels leading directly back home to the comfort of his bed. Even monkey bars. He could swing away as the teacher watched him helplessly in her high heels. High heels THAT WERE JABBING INTO THIS STOMACH!

"Sorry. This is gonna have to do for now. Your core conditions affect your body temperature more directly than your legs. We can see about those jeans after we get out of here." Gus was squatting next to him shirtless. He'd cinched his long-sleeved jersey around Shawn's middle, with 80's worthy tying job. Something soft pulled down over his face, promising warmth. He nestled his face in it, exhaling heavily into the fabric, attempting to capture the heat of his breath, but there was none. He paused, sniffing.

"D-downy?"

Gus pulled the sweatshirt over Shawn's shoulders and fed his arm through. "Dude. Snuggle." The Snuggle was good, thought Shawn. Very soft, indeed. Note to self: Buy some. No, steal Gus's Snuggle. If you live through tonight.

Shawn tried to push himself off the ground, but was surprised by his weakness. Gus grabbed his forearm and helped stabilize him as the blood drained from his head. Not enough blood, thought Shawn halfway. Halfway-standing, and halfway-thought. Halfway-thoughts were about all he could manage right now. He was accustomed to being the control-guy, but at this point he relinquished his position. As long as Gus knew Jules was in danger, he wouldn't do anything Shawn wouldn't do to protect Gus from this guy. Shawn hadn't forgotten the man's whispered threat against his best friend if they were to alert anyone of Shawn's condition or the man's presence in the theme park. Twisted bastard.

"Okay, Gus." He wasn't shaking as quite as badly. "Where are we going? Head hunter still or..." He trailed off, as they walked quickly through the thickly landscaped breeze.

"I'm glad you asked." Gus pulled out the decoder ring from a new location in his jeans, slipped it on his pinky finger, and, shirtless and shivering, cocked a half smile.


	12. Booty Traps

**Author's Note:** _All publicly recognizable headhunters, rabbits with vampirical tendencies, and misbegotten pharmaceutical reps, or men, as the case may be, are the property of their respective tribes, carrot patches, and evil drug corporations. Any supposedly Jamaican accents which seem particularly Namibian in their pronunciation surely had a reason to be written in such a manner, so lay off! The very, very bad man and very, very dismally bad plot are the property of me, all me. I do not have an annual pass to Disneyland, a fast pass to the Jungle Cruise, much knowledge, carnal or otherwise, of any creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

><p>Gus had a plan. He always had a plan.<p>

He hoped he had a plan.

"To the headhunter." He pointed onward, squirming up the remnants of his soft-boiled plot, keeping a peripheral eye on his partner.

"Say it in a Jamaican accent." Shawn demanded, grinning.

"To dah hed-hun-TAH," Gus said, tucking in his chin. He oscillated his eyebrows a little for effect, not sure Shawn could see in them under the screen of the makeshift jungle canopy.

As they pushed their way wordlessly through the bushes, drawing ever closer to an ancient animatronic herd of rhinoceros, Gus kept his arm wrapped around Shawn's, pulling up as he tripped occasionally. They were slowing down. Gus knew they had to keep moving, but it killed him to hear his buddy's muffled gasps and grunts as he tried to keep up. No complaining, though. He was probably conserving his energy. Gus was worried about how much blood he'd lost.

The infamous statue of Disneyland's headhunter, offering tourists "two of his for just one of yours" came into view. Gus expected these things to loom. To arch. Perhaps even trounce objects in the foreground. This was so not happening. The headhunter dude was like a terrestrial dwarfen decoupage man. A silhouette of a lawn ornament. So much for childhood fantasies.

As soon as he saw the statue, Shawn fell heavily against an old tree, sliding down its hard trunk, wincing in the mostly-cleared spot of moonlight. "I'll just... wait here, I guess." Again, he looked small against the wide, flat tree roots. Gus let go of his arm, and headed toward the figure.

"Gus, careful, buddy." Shawn's voice followed him urgently.

Gus wasn't expecting any Goonies-style "booty" traps. Not after the decoder ring and clue promises. Although, after the reception Shawn had received at the park entrance and the odd turn of events by the river's edge, there was no predicting what this guy would or wouldn't do. Gus wasn't about to examine the undergrowth for tripwires, but he set his Gus-dar to cricket-frequency, snapping vines out of the way with his ankles until he spied a familiar box lying at the back of the idol's feet.

As a pharmaceutical salesman ("rep" always sounded so dependent; he preferred "man" this days), Burton Guster knew a medkit when he saw one. The scene changed in his eyes, as if shimmering lights beamed diagonally through the trees, Meat Loaf and Bonnie Tyler crashing in great hurdling drifts upon the plants and the water and on Gus's shiny hopeful face. Only for a moment. But it was one glorious moment. Gus's moment was hollowed and tainted by suspicion and wariness, but he would take it. And the medkit.

Sliding his hand across the ring gripping his pinky irksomely like a thumbscrew, he sniffed the air. Only that nasty algae smell he'd been getting whiffs of. And maybe some fertilizer. He hoped there wasn't a bomb rigged to the medkit. That'd be JUST their luck. He glanced back at Shawn propped against the large Ficus. He was watching intently. Holding his breath, Gus snatched up the plastic box with his left hand. Duct taped to one side, he could now see, was a piece of white paper. Probably their next clue.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>"No, I don't think I can hash this out while you're playing Nurse Ratchet! It's beyond my astute capabilities. I have flaws, Gus. Though the r-rumors to the contrary flatter me b-beyond words."<p>

"All done." Gus looked... hardened.

"What, already?" Shawn peered down to see clean white gauze and bandages neatly covering his abdomen. While Gus had cleaned and bandaged, Shawn had occupied his mind with the same questions he'd been struggling over since they'd received the last clue. He was now less concerned with who the hell this guys was, and more concerned about how they were going to escape his slithery games and lock him away from the rest of the world forever.

"Hey, Gus."

"Yeah."

"We have to get this guy out of here. He has a weapon. What if he… what if he hurts someone else?"

"I know, Shawn. That's my Plan A. If you're up to it. I wanted to see how you were holding up first. I'm not sure if it's a good idea."

"Aw, you have a plan?" Shawn winked tiredly at Gus, knowing full well he had one.

"Is there enough light to decode this thing first?" Gus squinted down at the paper, holding it out a little from his face.

"Yeah, we're good." Shawn took the sheet and concentrated. He had most excellent night vision. It was his _Bunnicula _superhero power. Though his vision had been blurring in and out. "Can you see the ring?"

"Yeah. Just barely. Go for it." Shawn began to read off scribbly numbers, taking note of the some brown stains near the bottom of the note. He wondered if this was written before or after the guy had gone slasher on him. How much of this was planned ahead and how much was sick improvisation?

"Shawn..." Gus handed him the paper, pink and white pen shaking.

* * *

><p><strong>T H E G O A T W I T H T H E D Y N A M I T E O N T H E H I L L O R S H A W N S D E T E C T I V E G I R L F R I E N D I M I G H T K I L L<strong>

* * *

><p>Shawn crumpled the paper and rested his hand on the ground on a patch of moss. "What was your plan, buddy?"<p>

"Divide and conquer... You said this guy has a walkie-talkie, right? You felt it when he leaned against you at the entrance? What if one of us follows the clue, and the one he doesn't follow..." Gus swallowed." That idiot goes for the walkie-talkie to clue in Lassiter."

"YOU!" Shawn pointed a shaky hand directly at Gus's face. "GeniUUUS!"


	13. One Flew Over The Psychic's Nest

**Author****'s**** Note:** _All recognizable hippo dweets are forever under water. Their bodies are obscured. Do they wear swim trunks under there? Do they even have bodies? 80s tribute bands and hillbillies are the properties of their respective groupies. Other weirdites are mine, all mine. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I had written a most excellent bit with references to Bruce Campbell before Mr. Yin Presents stole my glory. I find this quite rude of Psych to have intercepted my inclusion. Especially as I lived next door to Bruce Campbell's parents for a very long time, and live quite close to the man and his chin himselves! *huff* I do not eat waffles with anyone would could provide you with reliable Psych spoilers. That is all._

* * *

><p>Shawn pushed himself up the tree trunk, shivering as pain threatened to pull him back to the ground. His jeans were wet and heavy, feet pinched in his wet shoes and socks. He'd changed into his Roo's in the car. He liked his Roo's. They were like carrier pigeons—the perfect place to keep secret things.<p>

Something glinted from behind the trees...

Shiny things...

A shimmer between low-hung branches. Branches which suddenly looked poised to crash in on them without notice.

He grabbed Gus's bare arm, but slowly so as not to trigger his Luftwaffe air raid impersonation.

"You okay?" Gus whispered. Shawn didn't answer immediately, still staring between the leaves, between the nighted trees.

Without shifting his gaze, he spoke precisely, his voice quiet, strained in his throat. "Gus. Buddy. He's here." Panic flashed across Gus's face, and even in the dim light, Shawn could see all of the muscles in his torso and his jaw clench and stiffen. "Let's hope he's just making sure we follow the rules." Shawn swallowed. "I say we continue this game."

He looked at Gus, and they both said quietly in unison:

"And hope they don't have blasters."

Gus pulled his shoulders back, and said to all in earshot, "The goat, I believe, we shall find on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad."

"Frontierland it is." Shawn made a grand gesture, his hand artfully directed back through the jungles. Realizing he was pointing in the vicinity of monster-truck-stalker, Shawn quickly subverted the movement into a fleeting hair-straightening. A useless one, at that. The stagnant, dirty water had mixed with the little hair gel that remained after... Actually, Shawn preferred not ruminate on the present state of his hair. Annnd...

"Gus!" Gus jumped. Perhaps he was also thinking about Shawn's hair. "Follow me." He took a hesitant step into the undergrowth. So far, so good. He wished his heartbeat would stop skipping around. He heard a whisper behind him.

"Hey, you sure you can do this?" Gus didn't need to know about the heart thing.

"Absolutely, buddy," he whispered back. His entire midsection was cramping and burning. Every breath killed. How to alert Lassie on a walkie-talkie of the situation, if he or Gus did, in fact, manage to confiscate said item was merely a transparent thought bubble above his shadow at this point.

The two walked the way they came through the vegetation, through the variegated snarls and tangles, and back up toward the Jungle Cruise maintenance gate. Neither of them spoke, but somewhere near the hippo dweet, sprang forth an inspired duet of Creedence's 'Run Through The Jungle.'

"Just look at that dweet of hippos, Gus. How come the big guys don't come up for air at nighttime?"

"That what, Shawn? It's called a pod. Or a herd. Sometimes a bloat of hippopotami, Shawn. And they're robots. They turn them off at night. Where did you hear 'dweet'?"

"I've heard it both ways."

There was only one cast member near the gate. The park had been closed for about forty-five minutes now. She was walking away from dock area, back toward the ride entrance with a large collection of keys in her hand. She wouldn't be expecting a pair of hoodlums to emerge, one shirtless, the other wet, disheveled, and injured, from the ride-side of the place.

Keeping a low profile, heads bowed, Shawn and Gus sneaked along the sides of the line-fortress until they'd cleared the worker's line of sight and found their way back into the park. Gus hugged his sides, shivering without his shirt in the night air. Shawn searched with his eyes, desperate to find a place to sit down before the ground came up to meet him halfway. Well, that would have to do. Ground it was. His knees gave way, and he slid down the rock retaining wall to the pavement, grabbing for the asphalt with one hand and his side and stomach with the other.

As he hit the ground, he heard someone approaching. He held in the cry that was forming in his gut and felt surprisingly strong arms heave him upright and sideways into relative obscurity behind a trash can.

The man with the flashlight finally passed. He sauntered by so slowly that Shawn was sure he'd let go the cry of pain he was literally squirming to choke down, as his stomach wrenched into a knot.

Gus helped lower him back to the ground, and watched as his friend made little effort to hide the excruciating pain that was tearing through his body. The knife had gone in at least three inches. His mind froze on the image of the guy jerking it upward. That could do some serious damage. He sat down next to Shawn, holding his breath, waiting for the pain to ease up. If they were going to get help, and the right kind of help, they had to get to Frontierland, and they should probably both get a wardrobe readjustment. Shawn might like this.

"Who's your favorite hillbilly, Shawn?" Shawn looked up at him, his eyes rimmed with the beginnings of tears.

"Billy Hill," he said quietly. He didn't crack a smile. Shawn loved Billy Hill and The Hillbillies. They were one of his favorite Disneyland attractions. After Voyager and the 80z All Stars. He squinted. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

"You remember how to get into The Golden Horseshoe still, right?" Shawn stared at him blankly. "You need dry clothes. I need clothes, period." His face remained clueless. "Our overall-wearing, hillbilly fantasies are about to come true, buddy."

A half-smile spread across Shawn's lips, not quite reaching his eyes.

Fist bump.


	14. Sea of Dreams

**Author****'s**** Notes:**

**Warning**—_Course language in this chapter. Shawn in severe pain here, guys. You__'d__ be swearing in your head, too by now._

_All publicly recognizable overalls, bandannas, riverboats, and failing psychics are sadly marked as property. Not my property, to be sure, but property nonetheless. The lattest of these items shall hopefully be the subject of a grassroots human rights negotiations campaign, but I will leave that up to you, the responsible reader. Bedding dreams are mine and Shawn's, but mostly mine. I do love beds. I do not make the beds of the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. Hell, I don't even make my own. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

><p>The Whipped Pineapple stand looked sad and empty at night. Maybe it was the lack of delicious flavor. Or perhaps it was the ominous... ominousness... ominosity (?) of the nearby totem poles, their faces crimped by moon shadows, which fell and lingered on time-worn wood grain, all but erased by tiptoed children as they passed in peripheral drones.<p>

Shawn's damp socks continued to tug and bite at his toes as he and Gus padded back through the Adventureland paddocks into unmarked territory. They were headed toward The Golden Horseshoe Saloon, dry clothes, and an idiotic plan that might get them both killed. The genius of Gus's plan had come to a stupored fall off the bar stool as they'd discussed in hushed voices the logistics of getting a coded message to the SBPD via a hopefully park-networked walkie-talkie. This was dreadfully dependent on one of them climbing a roller coaster mountain to see a goat about some dynamite, while the other acquired the communication device off an armed psycho who was, in all likelihood, not alone, judging by "Jafar's" presence in the bathroom, and stalking them from somewhere nearby.

Shawn's stomach tightened at the thought, which brought with it a new level of pain that seared through his insides like a branding iron for a moment before dulling back to a painful steady throb. He caught a sincerely worried look from Gus and realized he was limping badly. Actually, he thought, he was limping very well. Straightening, his jaw clenched in an ironic sleeper hold of his consciousness, Shawn concentrated his waning energy on a new goal of withholding and hiding his distress from Gus. Gus had a tough task at hand as well. One of them had to be unfettered by pity, self- or empathetic self-. And by stab wounds, if Shawn had anything to say about the situation. He was not going to let anything happen to his best friend.

_Fuck, it hurt_.

The pavement was well-lit, but an unpleasant calm hung over the familiar rickety wood frontier storefronts. It draped itself unabashedly over the shooting gallery whose constant barrage of noise had been silenced... silencered... at some point. It bothered Shawn that he hadn't noticed the moment of the racket's demise. He usually noticed things like that. He usually noticed everything. All he noticed right now was a constant attack on his pain receptors. Maybe it would kill them. He knew that was a lot to hope for. Hello futility. Goodbye observational Shawn.

Hello Saloon. _Hell, no. Steps. Note to self: Also thank Disney for railings. They're not just for old people and setting pies on to cool. Or were those windowsills? A pie would be nice. Like, a whole one. Although narcotics would help a lot more than comfort food_. Not a thought he'd entertained before. _Pineapple-flavored narcotics_...

Shawn grabbed the rail and eased himself up both shallow steps. _Did Percocet come in chewables_? His toe caught on the stoop. His whole body screamed, and he fell back a few inches into Gus. Carefully, his serendipitously-placed sidekick helped him over the god-damned trippy step and onto the wooden porch. _Screw Percocet_... _I.V. of Death Spores, please. Damn it_! He coughed, holding his stomach, until tears pulled at the back of his throat. So much for holding it in.

_Okay, hold in starting... now_. Clutching, grabbing for the pain to become tangible so he could choke it with his hands. So he could do anything! Okay. Starting now.

"You need to rest. I know you know-" Shawn held up his hand, motioning for Gus to stop yammering.

"I will do no such thing. It is I who have perfected these particular backstage door jiggle-to-open fine movements." Locks were kind of Gus's thing. The fancy ones were anyway. But this one was a matter of whispering proper entreaties to the bolt and catch gods. With a delicate flair. Shawn obviously had the most flair.

_And the best hair_. He was starting to lose it.

"I was going to say I know you know how to jiggle our way in, but you should sit on this bench while I go check out the door. See if anyone is around before you come tamper."

Shawn didn't argue, instead leaning against the building in a shadow, obfuscated from the eyes of any passersby. They had seen quite a few on their trek through the Lands. They'd stepped into hiding places each time anyone had come close enough to see them. Gus was rather conspicuous without a shirt. They were fairly centrally located here, close to the Rivers of America, of which the Jungle Cruise River was one. Shawn could see the silhouette of The Mark Twain Riverboat hulking in the far distance. He never wanted to see, hear, or feel water again. Or taste. God.

"_Shawn! Hey! Shawn, it's totally unlocked!_" Gus's whispered enthusiasm struggled over the long porch as he plodded quickly back to the main entrance. "This is either really awesome or really, really not good." He looked back toward the door. Shawn knew what he had in mind.

"Go for it, Gus. I have faith in you, buddy." Shawn sank down slowly. He started to shiver violently. The bench was long. It was all he could do not to lie down, but he knew he'd never be able to get back up. He leaned his head against the building and drifted back into his bed-in-the-middle-of-Disneyland fantasy. _A comfy bed. A mattress covering the entirety of the park. No shoes allowed. Down comforter. Millions of down comforters all piled on top of him, swaddling him in warmth and safety. Pillows tossed everywhere... No more smelly duck water. No more cold._He was so cold. Shaking hurt him to the core.

_Nope. Doesn't have to be pineapple flavored. Don't even want pineapple_. Shawn would refuse a pineapple if Val Kilmer himself offered it up right now. He just wanted a blanket. A blanket and a coma. So. Cold. The door inched open a crack a couple of feet away, but he refused to open his eyes. He knew it was Gus. _Gus Gus Gus. Fun. To. Say... Go. A. Way_. He would just stay here and die.

He coughed, his body wracked by painful spasms that just seemed to lead to more coughing.

Warm hands reaching around his shoulders. Body heat sidling in next to him. He would take anything right now. Why not? He took everything else Gus owned. Friend thing, right?

Gus...

He knew there was a reason he had to stay awake.

_Oh, Hell_. Then some comforting words from his left side:

"Overalls, Shawn. Warm, dry overalls. And dude. Shoes too! Shoes _and_socks. Whaat!" Shawn finally opened his eyes and peered sideways at his source of body heat. Gus was wearing a pink long-sleeved thermal shirt, denim overalls, and a red bandana around his neck.

"You..." Shawn inched away and opened his eyes more. "You had pants on."

"We can't fulfill our hillbilly fantasies together if only you are wearing overalls, Shawn." He looked pleased with himself.

"And the, uh..." Shawn touched his own neckline, raising an eyebrow.

"How many hats, Shawn?" Gus asked in a gruff, serious voice.

"That is so not funny." Shawn actually missed his dad.

"You know it is." It was then that Shawn realized that they needed to get a message out to Lassiter that would also bring his dad. His dad would be sneaky, and he and Lassie would find that son of a bitch.

"Help me change."

* * *

><p><strong>Additional AN: Please R&R? Thanks!**


	15. Big Red

Author's Note: _All publicly recognizable theme park attractions, man-made mountains, railroads, and chewing gum brands are the property of others. I may not have a perfect recollection of certain lines. In fact, that would be an unhealthy thing to have. I do, however, miss the old Last-A-Little-Longer commercials for Big Red. Bring them back! I have created this here baddie. He is all. And the plot. Not the drinking fountain. And Anaheim does have salty water. I do not share sticks of chewing gum with Steve Franks, but I would enjoy and appreciate an invitation. That is all._

* * *

><p>Shawn looked pretty damned funny in hillbilly clothes. Even with the heaviness of their situation, Gus found himself snickering as he stared at his friend. He continued to stare, grinning sporadically as they walked toward Big Thunder Mountain. Gus's mind wasn't the type to just block out nasty events, unfortunately, but maybe if he focused on "Billy Shawn" with his cunningly side-tied neck bandana (hey, these things had to be done properly), his hanging, faded overalls that were way too loose, and those ridiculous (but dry) cowboy boots, Gus would have one positive memory to plaster over the others. His overt fixation and amusement was met with a delayed tired glance. Shawn had been staring at the ground so far, probably focusing his energy and momentum on their destination.<p>

"What are you looking at, Buckwheat?" Should have expected that one. Gus huffed and returned his gaze to the approaching Mountain, but not before he saw Shawn choke, then spit on ground. It looked red. Gus did a double take.

"Shit, Shawn..." Gus stopped, but Shawn kept walking. "Shawn."

"I bit my lip on the porch, buddy," he said over his shoulder. "Hurry up."

Granite boulders and a wooden arbor adorned the entrance to the railroad roller coaster, their details in keeping with the rest of park: natural, clean, and beautifully molded into and around the landscape, which was now entirely desert. Gus appreciated the excruciating effort that was put into designing and maintaining such a veritable virtual reality in the flesh, carved into California's smoggy southern citylands. Big Thunder was even a natural home to lizards and sparrows. They hopped around and basked on the hot rocks that wound around the line, greeting tourists with something they weren't going to find in other places. There was no trace of vandalism, no gum stuck to the rocks, no trash on the ground, no tacky drink machines. There were drinking fountains kindly placed in line. Gus knew Shawn needed to have some of that water.

Shawn's breathing was beginning to come in shorter, more rapid pants and, despite the dry clothes, Gus could see the uneven bursts of shivering his friend was trying to keep from him. He was walking alright, though, and his face had lost some of its dewy sheen from earlier. It was partially obscured by shadows, his head down-turned as he stood near the entrance, his brow set. Shawn's hair, Gus noted with the tiniest twinge of satisfaction, was seriously mussed. It made Gus sad, though, to think Shawn might be in enough pain that he hadn't even attempted to tame the drying unruliness.

"Just remember, "Gus said authoritatively, "You don't have to do anything. You can wait until I get back with the next clue. You just watch your back." Gus turned his attention to the view presenting itself in front of them. The mountain looked hella tall suddenly, rising above the railroad tracks, its rocky slope pulling jaggedly past the row of unearthed dinosaur bones and over an empty black cavern. Against tonight's unusually clear skyline, the warmly colored concrete peaks reflected the park lights in a formidable glare. Stealing one more look at Shawn, Gus tugged at his own overalls and prepared himself for some action.

"You know what to do." Shawn's voice sounded thin, quiet, and worried.

"Do it, Rockappella!" Fearless Guster. "I am going to _own_this mountain, Shawn."

Shawn listed his fist for a careful fist bump and met Gus's.

Gus hesitated. "...Do they stock hand lotion in the employee restrooms? This is going to be murder on my cuticles."

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>As soon as Gus rounded the corner toward the goat-peak side of Big Thunder, Shawn tucked his head down and began to walk, stumbling occasionally, toward the boarding area. The line twisted and curved underneath colorful Western building fronts, past silent shrubs, and across a bridge stretching over a fountain where pennies and new quarters sparkled and shone from beneath clear water, reflecting the cool moonlight pouring over the open pathway. The setting made Shawn think of those scenes in Westerns just before dawn. The calm before a mortal duel.<p>

Just past the shiny coins was a drinking fountain. Shawn hoped some water would help him stay on his feet, a task that was becoming more and more difficult. He shook his head, realizing immediately it was a terrible idea. He clutched the cold lip of the fountain as the old train tracks in front of him, or perhaps behind him, pitched and rolled, then slowly righted themselves. He groaned as the action tore at his stomach and under the ribs of his right side. _Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit_! He began to cough again, not really sure why, probably from the shock of the pain, and tasted more blood.

Finally he leaned forward over the spigot, and pressed the metal button, slowly willing the pain and cramping to ease. Lukewarm water sprayed him in the face and rolled down his chin and neck into the bandanna. Catching the rest of the spray in his mouth, his thirst taking over, he began to gulp the slightly salty Anaheim water. It felt wonderful running down his throat. His head began to clear, and he stood up properly this time.

As Shawn made his way under the trestle, nearing the painted wooden steps up to the boarding area, his senses assailed him. He heard a grinding, screech from the engines in front of him and the train roared to life. At the same time his stomach turned with a sharp, horrible pain, and a wave of nausea seemed to lift his entire body in the air for a moment before he fell to the concrete in agony, gasping and coughing as blood poured from his mouth into some unforgiving bushes. He smelled cinnamon gum behind him, and his mind flashed back to the Big Red in the restroom.


	16. Double, Double, Toil, and Trestle?

**Author's Note:** _I thought it was about TIME for a flashback! And__ all publicly recognizable trestles, flashback techniques, and crustaceans, are the property of others. Okay, maybe not the roly polys. I do not have water balloon fights with anyone too closely associated with Psych. Not yet..._

* * *

><p>The irony of Big Red and the sheer amount of red that had just exited his body didn't escape Shawn as he began to panic, struggling to keep himself from collapsing into a face-plant in his own blood, but he was frozen in pain and fear. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced into his mind the most commanding presence he could summon.<p>

_Get up, Shawn. He's right behind you. You hear me? I need you to turn around and GET UP._ Henry's voice had been drilled into him throughout his childhood. It bugged the hell out of him at the time—all the "advice." All the Dad-lessons when he would rather have been playing. But that stern voice was clearer right now than his own muddled thoughts, and Shawn willed it to push through his pain and confusion. _Come on, son. Count of three. One... Two... _Shawn shoved himself back onto his heels. _Three_.

"I'm up, Dad..."

"_What was that, Shawn?_" Cinnamon breath curled into his nose in sticky hot ropes with the loud question, and he instinctively raised his arms to shield his face and upper body. The screeching train thundered overhead just then, just as he nearly lost his balance, just as he readied himself for another attack—

His eyes opened wide at the man before him. He was now in full view, less than two feet away.

Mental snapshot:

Big Red, without his monster truck-colored hat, had weathered monster truck sized hands, poised to mangle, outstretched and curled like cartoon talons, one of his thumbs hooked into the gray-trimmed pocket of a windbreaker (the soft, old kind that they used to make that came in every color and every sports team.) There were holes worn in the stretchy stained cuffs and old bleach spots speckled the side in a pattern Shawn filed under unimportant.

An orange polo collar was pulled halfway out, the other side unexposed, cinched by the tightly-zipped jacket. The guy looked poured into the clothes, skinny with a pot belly squeezed into the zipper. His faded black jeans tapered into off-white Reeboks with dirty round laces. One was tied in a sloppy double knot, the other just normal. They matched the uneven wrinkles that cut across his browned face.

His teeth were straight, almost filed, but that Splenda-packet-yellow (probably nicotine), and his mouth twitched up on the right side at odd intervals as he snapped his chewing gum. With each snap, Shawn could see a small white scar stretch invisible, then reappear on his chin.

His squinty, crazed eyes leapt out with the intensity of a bag of flaming dog poop on a starless winter night, embossed by his almost white-blonde hair. His hair... He had horrible hair.

Shawn made a lunge for the nearest post and heaved himself up, wheezing. The roller coaster screeched to a stop. Choking, he could feel the blood still dripping from his lower lip as he glanced wildly about, plotting some kind of way out. His stomach cramped, sending sharp rods of pain all the way through to his back and up into his chest. There might be enough room for him to squeeze between those two shrubs. _God_, he could feel it in his fingers. Red reached out his hand. No, there was seriously no way. Unless... Nuh uh. _He wouldn't_...

Shawn raised his own hand, whole body shaking now, to his temple, and with the other, grabbed his attacker's. The coaster started up again with a roar, and Shawn cried out. It was intended to be showy thing, but what started as a staged psychic realization just blended so elegantly with the terror and the blinding fucking pain that Shawn put everything into it. His bloody, grabbing hand was a good effect, too, he thought.

The train stopped again with a shudder somewhere above their heads, and Red stopped dead under the tracks. Stricken, perhaps? In awe? Breathing hard, Shawn wiped the blood from his lips, and feigned a dramatic channeled jolt traveling through his arm, then flopped his hand around a little for good measure before involuntarily pulling it back to his body. The train started up again, and Red opened his mouth.

"No!" Shawn cried, doubling over. That was for real, the doubling over. Looked pretty good, though. _Help me out, Henry._ So dizzy. Nothing? Really? _Dad, please_. After a pause, Shawn flung both hands out in front of himself, encircling the bad guy with his 'aura?' "Wait! I'm getting something!" _Tell me what to do, Dad..._

* * *

><p><em>1986. One summer evening nearing dusk. It had begun to rain. Large splattering drops beat into the dry ground, and thunder echoed in claps across the yard, following Shawn and Gus as they crept toward the Spencers' back door. Shawn pushed the door open only a centimeter, then two... then, SQUEA—<em>

_He did it on purpose! Keeping the doors squeaked! Other dads oiled hinges. Oh, not Henry Spencer! The boys exchanged panicked looks. They often practiced their "looks." Had them down. It totally bugged the grown-ups. This was not one of those looks._

_"Shawn! Gus!" They froze, droplets of rain running down their foreheads and into their eyes._

_"Uh oh." Gus always did have a way of undering his statements._

_"Sneaking, huh?" A loose fist grabbed a handful of Shawn's damp shirt. "What's this? Blood?" Shawn looked at his feet. "Whose blood is this, Shawn?" Words tumbled out of his mouth._

_"I bit my lip coming down from Billy's tree house. His mom said we shouldn't be up there with the lightning, and Gus got scared, and he was out of there so fast, so I jumped down, and bit my lip, and there was a lot of blood." He paused, amending helpfully, "But it's all better now." Shawn looked up at his father. Henry frowned._

_"I don't think so, kid."_

_How did he always know stuff? Shawn squished up his face and pulled away a little, still peering out from wet bangs that clung to his forehead._

_"Bloodstain pattern analysis, Shawn. Little forensics trick. The spatter is off. This is someone else's blood." He sat down at the kitchen table and folded his arm, waiting for a response._

_"It was an accident!" Both boys spat out at once, and proceeded to recount the happenings on top of on another in an unrecognizable crescendo of enthusiasm and sound effects._

_"Whoa, whoa. Both of you, sit." Henry gestured to the open chairs across the table. "Now, one at at time. Gus, go."_

_"Uh, Mark an' Shawn were arguing over whose turn it was to take home-" He stopped short. "Oh..." Gus was a terrible liar. 'Don't say comic book,' thought Shawn. "To take home our new neighborhood pet roly poly, and Mark fell trying to get it. It wasn't Shawn's fault! But he tripped and hit his chin on the swing set. It wasn't Shawn's fault, Mr. Spencer!"_

_Henry surprised them with a short chuckle. "You know how many kids split their chins, guys? He's getting fixed up, right?" Nods. "I will bet you most adults with with scars on their chins got them from fighting or falling when they were kids." Shawn relaxed. "Shawn, go change your shirt."_

_On his way into his room, Shawn heard, "And you're grounded for lying to me." Then a mutter to himself, "Roly poly? Get real."_

* * *

><p>"Yes, I'm getting something!" Shawn straightened. Releasing the man's hand, he cried out once more, clutching his chin. "Oh!" Big guy wasn't making a move, so Shawn continued. "When you were a kid! I'm getting... shin... your shin!" He was met with a blank stare. Maybe he shouldn't fool around with this guy. "No, wait. Something about your chin! I see you dancing. No, no, no. Not dancing. Drrrrrywalling... Frywall... Falling! Falling on your chin." What that enough? It was usually so easy to concoct these little stories, but the pain was slicing into every thought he had. "And..." Shawn searched desperately. And, what? So, what? "And... you were afraid!" There would have been quite a lot of blood. It scared the heck out all of them when they saw how much blood came out of Mark's chin from the swing set. The thought of blood hung over Shawn like a pall over a coffin.<p>

"I wasn't afraid." He touched the scar on his chin thoughtfully. "Are you afraid, Shawn?" The train lurched back into motion with a grinding, tortured cry, and Shawn braced himself against a chill that nearly knocked him over. He was about to come up with a witty retort, he really was, when he saw a furrowed brow. A twitch of a nose. Red's eyes flashed, then unfocused, as if he was looking through Shawn. Okay... disconcerting... Was he going to snap? Shawn backed hard against the post with a grunt, fully expecting another knife in the gut.

Sure enough, the man came at him, jerking, his eyes wide. Shawn cried out as the body collided heavily with his chest and slid down, twitching spastically into a heap on the ground. Between gasps, Shawn made a note to self: thank whoever hasn't cured whatever is causing this guy's seizures. He reached around drooling-Red's belt and grabbed both the walkie-talkie and the push knife, shuddering at the sight of the latter. He pocketed the radio, then, not sure what to do with the blade, wrapped it with his bandana, and stuffed it in his skivvies inside his overalls. Not the most comfortable place, but inaccessible.

On his stealth-way up the stairs to the semi-populated loading area, Shawn made a second note to self: learn how to cry like a man. Backed against the railings, he surveyed the goings on. Just as he thought. Brake testing. Only three people on the platform: two guys and a girl, and a partially-full train car on the tracks. Perfect! He could use this situation. His eyes moved past the tracks and up toward the mountain ridge. He thought he could see Gus's head. Gus's Magic Head. _Here's hoping_.


	17. Lost in Space

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

**Disclaimer:**_10-44: Brake testing: My husband is an expert. He worked at Worlds of Fun. You can't get off the ride. I don't own any selfish robots who only warn select characters of dangers, nor do I condone impersonating a law enforcement officer's ID. Unless you have been brutally stabbed in an amusement park. Don't climb Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. That is all. I will not buy this Psychic... Eet is scratched._

* * *

><p>The only things on Gus's mind as he tore through the last of the shrub barrier separating the dimly lit, nearly street-wide footpath and Big Thunder Mountain were getting the hell up to the top, grabbing the clue from the damned cute goat with the dynamite in his mouth, and getting back to Shawn as quickly as possible.<p>

Nobody was watching this side of the roller coaster. In fact almost nothing at all inhabited this area; only the trees which rose sharply against tonight's sparkling sky and a vacant peddler's cart off to the other side of the pavement. Gus shimmied slowly against what had, upon more intimate proximity, become a monolith worthy of _2001: A Space Odyssey_, before he was struck with the realization that no one could see him here. Not only was this cove an odd place for busy workers to turn their eyes, but he'd flipped the Jackal Switch. And once flipped, Gus was invisible. His cloaking device was impregnable. Like a Romulan warship, he called upon that Lord Master of stealth modes and disappeared. Quite satisfied with himself and intent on his goal, his eyes traced the upper bounds of the realistic rocky face, and placed his right foot securely on the nearest boulder.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>Shawn squinted. Maybe it wasn't Gus. It was probably just a rock. Hard to tell with the glare. That and it was growing increasing difficult to focus. Walkie-talkie clutched in his left hand, he ran his right down over his mouth and chattering chin. Scratchy stubble had begun to form. He welcomed the sensation in his fingers; he welcomed any twinge of feeling in his extremities. During the past two hours, the excruciating pain in his core had eclipsed all else to the point he'd begun to question the existence of other body parts.<p>

Shawn's eyes quickly swept the loading area and train tracks once more: one of the men and the woman were leaned against the far wooden wall, the guy gesturing with his hands, while his coworker laughed; and the other man stood slightly hunched over the ride controls, a visible smirk on his face and a rectangular announcer's mic in his hand.  
>Noting his posture, Shawn consciously tried to straighten, then tucked down again, letting out a sharp breath. Damn it; he was so fucking dizzy.<p>

The train was perched at the top of the first mound, its inhabitants jokingly holding their hands in the air. A simultaneous squeal erupted from both the cars and the passengers as tired employee bodies fell into one another, jolted forward another two feet before lurching to a halt once more.

_Plan—into action. _Shawn was usually fairly confident about his plans; his ruses. Right now he was as far from confident about anything as he could recall ever having been. This could go the way of his attempt to construct a satisfactory dog house in eighth grade for all he knew. He was fighting for his life, though, now; and for Gus's. And Jules'... Shawn's stomach dropped at the notion that she could be in danger as well. He'd been trying so hard to avoid the thought. But who knew? The shithead could be lying through his teeth.

A tremor traveled through his body, shaking him so hard he couldn't see straight. With a spasm, his thumb and finger, already poised, pressed down on the radio buttons.

Slightly startled, yet partly relieved some part of him had commenced action, he held the radio up to his lips and prayed it was on a park-wide network, as he'd theorized. Big Red bastard was a sneaky type who knew his way around. He probably had and needed inside communication or eavesdropping abilities.

Shawn clenched his jaw, (_Stop chattering. You'll give yourself away_...) forcing his body to shake harder and his knees to nearly buckle. He sat down slowly.

"Yes, hello." He moved his thumb off the button, coughing, then smashed it back. "Yes, I have something to report to Lost and Found immediately."

Static for a moment, then a voice: "This is security. Can you bring it over? We have someone here for another fifteen minutes or so."

"Actually, no." Shawn felt cold sweat dripping freely in ribbons down his back now. "We're brake testing, and I'm stuck on the ride. Won't be able to get off for..." His voice trailed and he took his hand off the button again, banging his head back against the support in a transient effort to quell rising nausea and stomach pain.

"Sorry, what was that?" The train roared back to life, and Shawn quickly directed the noise back to Anonymous Security Guy to verify the brake testing story, then raised his voice to overcome the sound.

"Ten-twenty. My location is Big Thunder Mountain Railroad." He'd always wanted to use radio codes. "I found a police I.D. here in my train car. Officer must have left it on the ride. It needs to be reported to the Santa Barbara Police Department immediately." He waited impatiently, envisioning his stalker friend waking up to rip the radio from his trembling hand.

"Um. Yeah... I'll let them know." The voice seemed unsure of how to proceed, so Shawn continued, his voice strained, eyes now firmly pressed closed. Now he had to alert Lassiter, have him bring along Henry, and give them some sort of message to enter the park with caution. _This is ludicrous_, he thought.

"Badge Number Eight-Five-Six-SBPD." His voice cracked. "It belongs to "Henry Will Robinson Spencer." God that sounded lame. _Danger, Will Robinson_! Ugh. Whatever. "Repeat: 856-SBPD Henry Will Robinson Spencer." He knew he needed his Dad to come, because Bruce-Willis-with-a-Glock there would storm in through the front gates, no stealth, no delicacy. Shawn was pretty sure Red had at least one accomplice. If there were more, one might have Jules, and any sign of the police would put her or Gus in peril. Shawn was also sure he would never watch _Aladdin_ again. It wasn't in his Disney era anyway. Not that he had an era. _Robin Hood_ was pretty awesome, though... _You know, I bet Lassie would agree with that? Or is he a Sword in the Stone kinda guy? _

It was hard to let go of the button this time. His muscles felt frozen, wrapped around the plastic, desperately clinging to the voice on the other end of the static. He pried them loose and waited for a response.

"Ten-four. Over and out." The static droned into the night between Shawn's skipping heartbeats.

"Ten-four." Time to replace the walkie-talkie before Sleeping Beauty woke up.

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter End Notes:<strong>

Poor Shawn... Blood loss is really starting to affect his ability to think straight. Shock too, probably. And can you imagine finally being able to speak to someone who might be able to help you and then having to let go of the button... just in case? Surrounded by people and possibly dying. Hard for him to let go of that real voice on the other side of the line. I hope he had a reason to go through all of this. Will Red wake up before he can return the radio? That might be bad... Thank you kindly for any reviews! I appreciate them very much!


	18. Ca ca ca ca ca catch the Wave!

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

**Disclaimer:**_Any publicly recognizable British artificial intelligence, known for his wit and stuttering, distorted, electronically sampled voice, theme parks, and field notebook brands are the property of others. I like to think I own some aspects of this story. Surely the bad guy is mine, although he's starting to freak me out. I do not wash dishes for or with the owners, creators, or producers of any theme park, chewing gum company, or media franchise. I also do not wash chewing gum._

* * *

><p>Shawn's fingers dragged the radio along the wood roughly next to him, closer to his side, his hand trembling and sticking to the plastic surface, tacky with his own blood. Pocketing the object, he could feel the wrapped-up knife in his still-damp underwear jab the outside of his leg as he grabbed a post, and pulled himself up once more.<p>

Tremors of cold shook his body, and the stabbing, knotted pain in his stomach nearly pulled him down the steps leading back to the path.

Catching himself, he peered through the moonlight and was relieved to see that Red was half-splayed/ half-curled exactly where Shawn had left him. That relief twisted itself into horror as he realized Red would notice the knife was missing when he woke up, whether the walkie-talkie was replaced or not. If Shawn just stabbed him right now (the thought was tempting), one of his buddies would hurt Jules or Gus.

As he reached the lump of a body, Shawn didn't even feel disgusted. He hurt too damned much, he was worried about Gus, and he was shaking uncontrollable. Freezing. Squatting next to the form with a wheezed cry, Shawn clutched his stomach and began to cough. His eyes darted all over the man, looking for evidence of truth or lies or intent.

Depending on whether Juliet was really in danger, he might just stab the bastard. Usually he could focus on anything from almost any distance. Tonight, his eyes blurred and stung. He searched frantically until he saw a piece of paper sticking out of Red's black denim pocket. He squinted. _Can't read._His stomach sent more shooting pain through his chest, and he sat back, gasping. Focusing harder, he caught a few words in that unmistakable slashed-out, capitalized psycho handwriting: 

* * *

><p><strong>JULIET - HE CALLS HER JULES<br>****BLONDE  
><strong>**PARTNER IS LASSITTER/LASSY(?)**

* * *

><p>He awkwardly stuffed the radio back in his assailant's pocket, then, leaning sideways with effort and even more pain, pulled the wrapped knife from him overalls and hesitated...<p>

It was a cheat sheet. He didn't—

_"Shawn...!" _He looked up in response to the whisper to see Gus, face scraped up a little, his overalls filthy, standing behind a bush about four feet away holding the "Rite-in-the-Rain" notebook. _"Shawn, get out of there! Take the knife! Shawn!"_

Suddenly, great hands grabbed the knife from his hands and put it away as the big guy sat up. From over the man's shoulder, Shawn could see Gus move in.

"Thought you could be sneaky and take this, huh?" The burly figure look fascinated as Shawn shook violently, clutching at his stomach. "Cold, huh? Interesting! I'm not cold. Must be some kinda shock you're going into. Guess I gotcha good." He slugged Shawn jokingly in shoulder. Shawn grunted in disbelief, mouth and eyes open wide.

"Where's your buddy? Where's Gus?" Shawn didn't answer. "WHERE'S YOUR FRIEND?"

Shawn saw Gus open his mouth, and cried out instinctively, "No!"

Red smiled as Gus stepped close, chin up, eyes lowered, shaking visibly. "I'm right here."

"Oh, good, you still have the notebook!" Red sat up straighter. "Did you find the clue?"

"Yes." Gus answered monosyllabically.

"Shawn here is cold. Too bad, huh? That notebook is waterproof for a reason. Did YOU know... Shawn was trying to steal MY knife? What do you think I should do to him?"

"You leave him alone!" Gus moved forward, just as Shawn felt a hand touch, then press harder and harder into his abdomen.

He weakly grabbed for the arm inflicting the exploding pain, but was torn away and shoved to the ground. The frigid cold overtaking his body was faintly overwhelmed by a surge of warm blood as it rose, gurgling in his throat, and trickled from his mouth. Then the nausea hit again. This time harder. He tried to turn his head to the side and vomited blood down the bib of his overalls and all over Big Red. _Again, how fitting, _he thought fleetingly, as he hacked up blood.

Disgusted, Red took off.

"Shawn!" Gus's voice broke as he knelt by his friend and grabbed his hand. Shawn just kept coughing, each respiration more agonizing than the last._ Blood everywhere... _

"Gus!" Shawn inhaled and turned onto his side, almost into a fetal position with his head on Gus's knees. "He's—he's not after Jules. He has a... He's got a cheat sheet on her." He choked some more, then shut his eyes, eyes stinging with tears.

"Then I'm going to get you help right now, Shawn, and they can get that bastard."

"No, Gus. S-someone's after you. They could hurt someone else i'the park, too."

"What? How do you figure?" Gus slid off one of Shawn's overall straps. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly, "I'm just going to check on your stomach okay?"

"'kay. What'd th'clue say?"

"Said we have to go down to The Mark Twain, and use this "Rite-in-the-Rain," then..." He stopped when he lowered Shawn's overalls.

"How'sa goat, buddy?" Shawn slurred. He knew how badly he was hurt, and so did Gus.

"Hella cute, Shawn. I love that goat."

"I know, buddy." Then he looked up at Gus. "Lassie and Dad are coming."

"Good job, Shawn."

"Gus?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you look like Max Headroom? You're giving me a headache."

Then Shawn could hear Gus say under his breath, "They better hurry."

"Everything is m-moving around in jerks..." He gasped in pain again, and held his eyes shut.

"Okay, let's get you up. Take it slow and hold onto me. I've got you."

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p>"I don't want to hear it, Detective. An old cop buddy of mine has a Cessna. He says we can use it tonight. We're getting my son out now."<p>

"Why the hell would Spencer go through so many indirect channels and use codes to get to me, and then use your name? And what's with the _Lost in Space _reference?"

"He obviously needs us both to come and..." Henry looked slightly embarrassed. "You, know... 'Danger, Will Robinson, danger'?"

Lassiter looked at him like he was purple with polka dots.

"He's warning us in his way. It's dangerous. We shouldn't just waltz in the front doors with the cavalry. Look, I don't know what's going on, but they need help; they need us, and we have to use caution. Are you coming or not?"

The detective grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, slid his badge onto his belt, and holstered his Glock. "My car to the airport."

"Fine by me. You get the back of the plane." Henry hustled out the front doors of the Santa Barbara Police Station. 

* * *

><p>°o° . °o° . °o° . °o° .°o° . °o° . °o° . °o°<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter End Notes:<strong>

Lassie and Henry are coming! Will they make it in time? Thank you kindly for any reviews!


	19. Grim Grinning Ghosts

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

**Disclaimer:**_Shawn's not doing very well. Not very well at all… All publicly recognizable stray cats, flower pots, brooms, pirate ships, and aircraft are the property of other, much cooler people. The hellish nightmares, experimentation, revenge, paranoia, and banter are mine. I do not display the colors of any ships, owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. TO ARMS!_

* * *

><p>Slowly, with his arm wrapped around Shawn's back, Gus lifted his friend to a standing position and leaned pulling nearly all of his weight around both shoulders. Shawn stumbled, moaning, his face nearly translucent in the blue-tinted light, teeth chattering. Gus could feel every inch of his best friend's body shivering steadily. He couldn't imagine how much pain and exhaustion the tremors were causing in themselves. Even the blood that now covered Shawn's arm, chin, and neck was becoming cold with his damp clammy skin.<p>

With his spare hand, Gus reached around front to feel how much blood was actually seeping through the hillbilly clothes (which weren't so much fun anymore.) Shawn pulled back slightly with a whimper as the hand grew warm on his stomach. Gus pulled it back to look. Not much fresh blood. Not on the outside, but his stomach felt hard and distended.

Shawn was bleeding internally, probably into his stomach, and in scary amounts. What had likely started out a clean cut had surely ripped open with the trauma he'd been through. Gus shuddered as his mind lingered for a moment on Shawn clutching to life by the murky creek, choking and gasping for air. Then he pictured the madman shoving his hand into the Shawn's stomach harder and deeper with that—that look on his face. Almost lust. Sheer madness.

Gus had to find help immediately, or Shawn was going to... or Gus was going to lose his best friend. He gently reached around further and took Shawn's forearm, lifted for more support, and began to bear the brunt of his weight toward the Mark Twain River Boat. They'd walk toward the next clue destination while he deduced their options.

The river was a straight shot from the entrance of Big Thunder, save for some steps down closer to the riverbed and dock. The night shift had begun to come to life in a surreal scene, and the two became virtually invisible amidst the bustle. Behind them ride operators and tired daytime workers continued their screeching brake-testing; to the sides employees wearing headlamps worked diligently repainting benches and trash cans and planting flowers; and everywhere, it seemed, people with large scrapers, brooms and flashlights swabbed the decks of the entire theme park. Gus could almost picture Dick Van Dyke jumping out in front of them with a chimney sweep broom singing "Step in Time." Disneyland did that to a sane person under normal circumstances in the daytime without a lunatic stalking you...

Gus felt Shawn stiffen by a deserted arbor with hanging flower pots, so he stopped to help him lean up against the post. A cat rubbed up against Shawn's legs and mewed, then rubbed some more. Gus could feel his partner ease slightly as the stray animal gave him a little comfort. He noticed a large bowl of cat food and some water next to them. Disney must feed the stray cats at night. _Probably keeps down on the rodent population_, thought Gus. The cat looked well-fed. A large gray-striped tabby. Instead of wandering off or eating, it sat at Shawn's feet and began to take a bath. Shawn groaned and coughed, gasping again, first placing his head back on the post, then lurching it forward.

Gus grabbed his shoulders firmly. "You gonna pass out on me, Shawn?"

"...dunno." The answer was slow and deliberate through a thick tongue.

Gus edged in closer to Shawn's chest so he could help him down if he fell, and took his wrist to check his pulse. It so weak he couldn't feel it, and had to move his fingers to Shawn's neck. The pulse was thready, irregular, and extremely rapid. Shawn's neck was drenched in cold sweat.

Suddenly Shawn collapsed.

Gus caught him, easing him down slowly onto his back and put his knees up. The cat rubbed against Shawn's knees, then rubbed its head against Shawn's face.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gus looked pleadingly at the animal. He stroked it as if it were the only anchor to sanity he had left.

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"You're in the back because I'm the goddamn co-pilot, Detective Lassiter," Henry said once again over his headset.

Lassiter sat in the back of the small private aircraft with his long legs spread, knees high, a disgusted look smeared across his face. He readjusted his own headset. Next to him, he yanked out the contents of his briefcase. At least they fit on a back seat. Well, half of a back seat.

God, he wished the chief hadn't sent those two fools to Disneyland. It was a great place to be anonymous. AN ANONYMOUS PSYCHOPATH ON THE HUNT. A guy Henry had put in jail years ago. He'd gone completely nuts after he'd been released from jail and was suffering from the advanced stages of a brain tumor apparently, leading to paranoia, revenge, experimentation on the lives of those who'd interrupted his life, and god knew what else. That was as much information Lassiter had gathered on the suspect on his own by the time they'd received the call for help.

"How much longer?" Lassiter felt like a little whiny twerp in the backseat on a family vacation. He hated little whiny twerps.

From the pilot: "The whole flight only takes an hour. I figure it took us about thirty minutes to get in the air and you've got us that special clearance for landing, so from our current location, another forty or so minutes till you two can get into the park itself."

"Too long, too long." Henry muttered into his seat. "What if the kid's hurt? What if Gus is hurt? God damn it."

"There's a car at the airport that will take us directly to the back gates. We'll keep the sirens off when we approach, enter with stealth. We'll call for back-up as soon as we arrive." Lassiter craned his neck toward Henry. "You ever have any Disney fantasies, Spencer?"

"What? No! My son is in danger! Disney fantasies?"

"Oh. Me neither." Lassiter sat back and began to collect the papers onto his lap.

Henry wrinkled his brow and stretched his fingers, then looked into the backseat.

"Why? Did you?"

"No..." Lassiter looked uncomfortable, brows crinkled, pursing his lips, his eyes glancing out both windows, back and forth.

"You did!" Henry flashed an accusing half-smile and pointed. "You wanted to be Peter Pan?"

"What? No! But... Never mind." He sat with his eyes staring forward, looking at nothing on purpose. Henry followed suit, almost comically.

It was Lassiter who broke the silence.

"We are sneaking in unnoticed by way of Captain Hook's Ship." He was repelling down that mast so help him god. Henry turned back around, snorting. "Why not hot air balloon?"

Lassiter made a mocking face before returning to sorting papers he'd already looked at hundreds of times.

"Jolly Roger."

"What?" Lassiter put down the stack next to him.

"Captain Hook's Ship. It's called The Jolly Roger." Henry stretched his legs out in front of him and went back to fiddling with his magazine and the seat controls.

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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter End Notes:<strong>

This is the final stretch. You have no idea how much even one review would mean to me right now. I have just completed a MAJOR revision of every single one of the last 19/20 chapters, including definite changes in tone, personality, and, of course, style and basic hyper-proofreading.


	20. Pump it Up

Author's Note: I only own my thoughts associated with Psych, which are, as usual, quite strange. Thank you for indulging them.

Before Shawn cracked open his eyes, somewhere in the remote recesses of his mind, he remembered the sensations before he felt them. He recalled a cold. A biting, damp cold that shouldn't exist _inside_ his body. _Inside_ his head. An ache so deep it penetrated his muscles, his skin, the quick of his nail beds. At the same time a churning in his stomach. Not just nausea, but a roiling so sickening, he felt as though his organs were having an orgy in a cheap hotel room bed with a magic fingers coin slot in an earthquake.

As his eyes began to flutter open, he grasped desperately at the rough concrete with his hands… his stomach suddenly felt as if it were filled with smelting lead. Memories began to return to him in a sickening deluge along with his consciousness and all sensation.

Gasping, still confused and groggy, he stared upward, attempting to find his bearings. Above him was a wooden trellis.

"_Gus_?" he breathed.

Receiving no reply, Shawn's heart, already beating faster than he thought possible, quickened even more so, his breaths now coming out in short pants.

Clutching his stomach with one hand, Shawn pulled himself back up against a post, glancing drunkenly in all directions for Gus. Eyes squeezed into tight, thin lines of pain that could have been slashed into clay by an Exacto knife, Shawn willed a wave of dizziness to pass, before squinting through them once more.

Had Established Bad Guy #1, possible partner(s) taken his friend? His brother? Hell, at this point everything was so fucked up even he couldn't rule out Gus's infamous ape attack paranoia as anything less than a real possibility. Was Gus missing because Shawn had failed? It was his fault. His observational abilities which had kept both Gus and him safe over the course of their partnership had gone down the toilet before they even reached the first restroom. Panic crackled and froze around him in hitched breaths of confusion as he surveyed the unfazed workers going about their rounds within almost touching distance. Time seemed to lock and unlock at stuttering intervals.

Seemingly from out of thin air (quite thin right now) a pair of boots and hip-waders presented themselves unceremoniously in front of him, and he flinched.

"Oh, god, Gus! I thought…" Shawn didn't have time to finish his sentence before Gus was sitting on the ground next to him.

"Shawn, I'm so sorry, man. I didn't want to leave you here, but I thought I should grab the gear we needed for our next clue as fast as I could, you know, in case you woke up. It's almost time for Lassie and your Dad to show up, and… I just. I can't take him hurting you anymore, Shawn. I can't take it anymore."

"Dude… are you crying?" Shawn stared at Gus's sudden release of emotion and realized he'd been holding it together like a petrified Chia Pet the whole night. That was kind of a huge deal. Gus was a "sympathetic crier." Shawn always thought that was a little lame, but it amused him nonetheless. Now, though, while they sat, both vulnerable, he felt bad about forgetting that Gus was sympathetic in other respects as well, even though he usually bore that "holier than thou" attitude.

"Sorry." Gus wiped the tears off his cheeks. He was already wearing boots and hip-waders over his overalls. Shawn wiped the cold beads of sweat that ran into his eyes colluding with his blurry vision to make seeing anything past his eyelids frustrating as hell.

"The clue said we need to go test the alkalinity and a few other chemical levels in the Rivers of America near The Mark Twain River Boat." He pointed. "Right over there." It wasn't very far away. "Do you think I can help you into these and we can get you down there?"

Shawn looked guiltily at Gus. "Gus, I'm g-gonna be okay. Just. Just gotta get through one l-last th-thing. All p-pine'pples… after… that." He was tired of shivering and trying not to slur his words. Talking was generally his fallback. His cover-up to mask any vulnerabilities or insecurities. Right now he hurt, and he felt like anyone could see every thought he was thinking or knock him over with a feather.

As Gus carefully pulled off Shawn's cowboy boots and helped him into the pair of hip-waders and waterproof boots, Shawn studied the box next to them.

"F-for testing ch-chemicals?" He shivered. Stomach cramping and shooting pain through his whole body… through his fingers and his hair, he knew there was more. "That's all?"

"Shawn…" Gus hesitated. "There is a catch." He flipped open the case. Inside, neatly lined along one side in rows were bottles, test tubes, and instructions—the equipment used to test water samples; and on the other side, also neatly lined, was a row of hypodermic needles and a separate sheet of instructions.

"Need I remind you…" Shawn visibly backed up and paled further, if that was possible.

"Of your 'distaste for pointy things?' No, Shawn. Good news is… uh… well… apparently some of these are pain killers and some are antibiotics, so they might help you." Gus looked freaked.

"And… your sales… r-reptit-tude…" Shawn stammered, knowing what was coming next.

"…does not include unlabeled toxins."

"So we just s-skip the d-drugs. Sounds good." Shawn relaxed minutely, still gasping as sweat rolled down the bangs plastered to his forehead and down his eyelashes.

"I'm so sorry, Shawn, but this freak was right about the challenges getting worse. This time, we have to actually go test the water—" He held up the waterproof notebook. "—and after each result, one of us has to inject the other, taking turns, with an unmarked needle. One of them may contain a toxin. I have no idea. He didn't specify." 

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This was all too rich. He really thought the psychic was out of the game already when he'd seen all of that blood come gushing out of his mouth. Holder Sandlin certainly hadn't expected the two partners to make it almost all the way to the docks by The Mark Twain River Boat for his next challenge before Shawn collapsed like a sack of potatoes again. He was out for a quite a few minutes, and Sandlin watched from a distance of about ten feet, obscured by a tree in the uneven shadows, morbid curiosity getting the best of him when the pharmaceuticals representative actually left his unconscious best friend's side to retrieve their box of… goodies.

While Sandlin waited for Gus to return, he alternated between watching his victim's nearly still form take in shallow respirations and fiddling with his own right shoe. The tongue on that shoe still pumped. The other shoe had long ago lost its trademark quality. He had a habit of pumping up that shoe—just the one. Over and over. Probably bad for balance. Not that he had very good balance lately with his… health problems. At least he was good for one final showdown. He was getting that asshole, Henry Spencer back in the worst way possible: by attacking his son. His family. For putting him away during the healthy years of Sandlin's life. During his years spent in a cell, he had lost his son to a car accident. Never had time to say goodbye. Torturing Shawn and messing with his mind and best friend in the process wouldn't make up for that wasted time.

He also liked the way the bright lamps bathed the park in an unearthly glow. It was extraterrestrial... made him feel like he was part of a movie set. With all the painters in headlamps… Music still playing… He had gone unnoticed the whole night.

It felt like there were rubber bands in his head for a moment.

Gus had returned. Shawn was awake.

The two men were suddenly by the river. Had he blinked? Or tripped? Because he was on the ground again. Perhaps he had been the whole time. He may have simply forgotten. It was time to wander in closer and call for back-up.

Grabbing the radio, Sandlin stood and told his accomplice it was time to prepare. With one shoe full of air and the other deflated, he sauntered closer to the water's edge, not unlike a chimpanzee with a sprained ankle forced into bipedal action.

Shawn, leaning heavily against Gus, boots submerged in the river, had just myopically written in the first calculation.

Walker looked at the figure standing beside him with glee as they turned their eyes toward the two men anxiously examining each of the hypodermic needles. Shawn rolled up his sleeve with his eyes clenched, and all parties waited. 

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Thank you kindly to everyone who has favorited this story! I would love to see some reviews, as they inspire me very much, and I have had a horrible case of writer's block of late!


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